


Old Vines

by sevdrag (seventhe)



Series: Ecdyses (The Old Vines universe) [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Aziraphale Is an Unreliable Narrator, Aziraphale is "just enough of a bastard to be worth knowing" (Good Omens), Blogging, But here it is, Canon-Typical Drinking, Crowley is Bad at Feelings (Good Omens), Crowley is anxiety with sunglasses on, Crowley's Plants (Good Omens), Ensemble Cast, F/M, Food Porn, Gabriel is That Boss, Heavy Drinking, Kitchen Sex, Long, M/M, Multi, Mutual Pining, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Slow Burn, Tags May Change, The Author Regrets Everything, The Author Regrets Nothing, There's A Tag For That, This fic will be large, Very long, Warlock Dowling Joins The Them, Wine, Winery AU, best review ive ever had, bet y'all never thought you'd be happy it was gabriel, everything aziraphale writes reads a little like food porn, gratuitous sexy descriptions of chardonnay, it's either gabriel or fire, its a winery AU people, no one asked for this fic, “It’s like sexy Ratatouille”
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-08
Updated: 2021-03-01
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:14:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 21
Words: 189,706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23545207
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seventhe/pseuds/sevdrag
Summary: A.Z. Fell, one of the most respected names in wine and food blogging, has been sent on assignment with his assistant Warlock Dowling to spend six months in California Wine Country. Under direction (by his boss, Gabriel) to use this experience to double his blog followers and write a novel, Aziraphale is both excited and anxious about the opportunity.Anthony J. Crowley is the owner and viticulturalist ofEcdyses, a winery that unexpectedly fell into his lap eleven years ago when he hit rock bottom. He may be in debt, yeah, but he’s paying off his loans — and despite pressure from his lenders and their team of inspectors, Crowley has found a kind of contentment tending his little corner of terroir and producing extraordinary wine. Crowley’s old vines are the heart of his vineyard, and he’s never let anyone in.Crowley finds Aziraphale intriguing; Aziraphale finds Crowley enthralling. Turns out a famous wine expert and an experienced viticulturalist can still learn things from each other. The summer of 2019 unfolds.
Relationships: Anathema Device/Newton Pulsifer, Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Ecdyses (The Old Vines universe) [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2031409
Comments: 1769
Kudos: 789
Collections: Ecdyses: the Old Vines universe, Good Omens Human AUs, Ineffable Humans AU





	1. Notes of Steel and High Altitude

**Author's Note:**

> Well, y’all, hm. Uh. shit why are you still looking
> 
> This fic is first and foremost a love letter from me to the entire wine-making process - including the drinking; don’t forget the drinking - and to California’s Russian River Valley, which I’m quite fond of. There are descriptions of Chardonnay so gratuitous you might find them sexy, but only if you are also a Taurus who starts drooling when you find a bottle with the word “buttery” on it. Look. This is a lot about wines. I like wine. I enjoy wine. Stop looking at me.
> 
> But it’s also a love letter to Good Omens. I haven’t even written that much in this fandom, but that show changed my life, and I needed a Crowley and an Aziraphale in this setting that could take my love of wine and cooking and make it into something that would be theirs. I hope you like my interpretations of them in this particular world. I needed a comfort fic, and this is it.
> 
> When I say this is a slow burn, it isn’t just because I’ve dedicated pages to endless pining - which I might have - it’s because this fic is going to be very, very long. I expect it to near 100K before it is over. This is because I can’t stop (a) talking about wine tasting; (b) making poor Crowley have anxiety fits; and (c) expanding here and there to look into other characters’ points of view.
> 
> Which means: this is also a love letter to long fiction. Long fanfiction. I miss long epics, so I've written you one.
> 
> It will post a chapter every week. That chapter will normally be posted on Wednesdays, depending on my workload and schedule. Huge thank-yous go out to FadedSepia, who has helped inspire my Crowley’s impeccable fashion sense, and feathers_and_cigarettes, my murder husband, who cheers even when he’s not in the fandom.
> 
> That being said, let me introduce A.Z. Fell, whose blog has been newly acquired by the Food and Travel Adventures conglomerate, and who happens to be on his way to California for the first time ever...

Aziraphale settles into his first-class seat with an audible sigh. Oh, but he _truly_ hates flying; the hassle of it, all of the bustle and the people and the rules! — as if he’s supposed to be able to pack his toilette in a _carry-on_ for a _six-month_ business endeavor! Three ounces, absolutely _not._ It’s become ridiculous. Plus, the Los Angeles airport is just ...despicable. Too large, too busy, too... too _much._ Then again, that applies to most of LA, by Aziraphale’s standards; he doesn’t often admit that he misses the calm of his old life in London, but the feeling’s still there.

He glances over to watch Warlock settle into his own seat. Warlock has traveled with him before, but he’s new to this first class deal - courtesy of the Food and Travel Adventures corporation, their new benefactor - and Aziraphale can at least enjoy the way Warlock grins at the seating and the space and the water bottle that’s been left for them. Back when Aziraphale and Warlock were doing this on their own, they flew coach on lines like the absolutely traitorous Delta; now, here they are, being offered a warm lemon towel and their choice of the drink menu.

Although - Aziraphale pauses - he’s probably wrong in that assumption; it’s highly likely that Warlock has traveled first class before, in the life he had before he became Aziraphale’s, well, employee. Well, it’s the first time Warlock has flown first class with _Aziraphale,_ at least.

Aziraphale takes a moment to wonder what Warlock puts on those business cards he orders for himself. What’s the proper term: Editor? Manager? Personal Assistant? Aziraphale isn’t even sure _he_ knows. What he can say is that Warlock Dowling has been earning his (recently bumped) salary and then some, these days. He’s so incredibly lucky this young man has decided to hitch his star onto A.Z. Fell’s rising popularity. There’s no way Aziraphale would be able to manage all of this nonsense on his own.

He’ll have to ask Warlock for a business card, Aziraphale decides, so that he’ll know how to introduce him at wineries. Maybe a few; he can mail one to the poor boy’s less-than-stellar parents in an attempt to make a subtle point.

Aziraphale takes a moment to murmur thanks to the lovely flight attendant currently offering him a pack of peanuts and a one-serving bottle of Laboure Roi Chardonnay 2017 Vin de France, which he expects to be truly awful and plastic-tasting; but he’d promised Gabriel that he would take the brief flight to San Francisco to write at least part of his first article for this endeavor, and Aziraphale’s not one to turn down wine.

Once they’re settled, Warlock grins over at him. The boy has a Bloody Mary; Warlock is unapologetically American, which _should_ be a strike against him, except that Aziraphale finds himself quite fond.

“Everything alright over there, dear boy?”

Warlock’s grin grows wider. Boy might be a misnomer - Warlock has been with him for years, in a capacity growing from online editor to agent to personal assistant to Aziraphale’s increasingly chaotic life - but he’s younger than Aziraphale and tends to act it, all charming and sleek. His long dark hair is pulled back into a simple ponytail and he slurps through the straw of his drink loudly because he knows Aziraphale hates it.

“This isn’t my first time in first class,” he tells Aziraphale, and well, that settles it. His parents were — well, his father had been some sort of Ambassador for the United States, and his mother had apparently been a Professional Wife, and Warlock had likely experienced more of the blessed life than Aziraphale has, yet, in his entire career.

“I’m not asking your history, I’m asking whether you’re settled,” Aziraphale tells him; it comes out snippy, but that’s okay, because Warlock likes that Aziraphale is a bit of a bastard. Gabriel keeps trying to clean up the edges of his ‘image’ - whatever that is supposed to mean - somehow thinking that because Aziraphale is a soft high-British man who prefers waistcoats and trousers, he needs to present some kind of soft, friendly, angelic image. He gets that enough with his name, thank you very much.

“Yeah,” Warlock says, stretching his long legs out as far as he can. First class for a flight this short is a little ridiculous, but Gabriel had insisted on setting them up with all kinds of perks. He’s showing off, of course - Aziraphale may cultivate the perception that he’s a bit slow, but he isn’t stupid - since this is the first big project they’ve assigned to him since they picked up his work three years ago. Gabriel seems to want to show Aziraphale all of the perks that can be possible if he stays with FTA; his newly branded blog, _A Taste of Heaven_ , has been quite successful, and for all Gabriel’s annoying qualities, he recognizes quality when he sees it. Thus: first class for a flight only a bit over an hour, and Aziraphale’s sure they’ll have some posh luxury car waiting for them in San Francisco for the drive.

Warlock breaks through Aziraphale’s train of thought. “How about you, alright over there?”

Aziraphale shifts himself in his seat, a little wiggle, trying to settle in a bit better. He’s neither as young nor as slender as Warlock, and he absolutely hates flying besides — but all things considered, it isn’t an absolutely abysmal experience. “I’m perfectly fine,” he says, but then he raises the little bottle of Chardonnay and gestures at Warlock. “Except for this.”

Warlock snorts. While _A Taste of Heaven_ is possibly the blandest blog name Aziraphale can think of, and says nothing about the actual content - again, Gabriel’s doing - A.Z. Fell is known for a few specific things, and the most famous of those is his palate for wines. “Be nice,” he tells Aziraphale. “You know I hate reworking your meaner reviews.”

“They should let them _stand_ ,” Aziraphale insists, but this is an old argument between the two of them. Back when his blog started, he could post whatever he liked about wines, meals — and he did. Aziraphale isn’t out to be cruel to the food business, but he believes in honesty, and it always irks him when Gabriel or Michael rewords one of his blog posts to be more generically pleasant. Then again, he’s learning slowly in this business that it‘s considered a bit gauche to give a poor review to a brand that might someday be a sponsor bringing in money. It makes his blog writing terribly complicated, sometimes.

“Besides, I’m never _mean,_ ” Aziraphale adds, piously. “I’m simply being _honest.”_

“Az.” Warlock rolls his eyes, bringing an unnecessarily thick set of headphones up towards his face. “I am going to sleep for the next hour. Write your article, be nice, and wake me up when we’re there.”

Warlock is the only person currently allowed to call him _Zira_ or _Az_ or some other kind of short name; Aziraphale doesn’t really enjoy nicknames. He allows _A.Z. Fell_ as his publishing name because it gives him a small bit of anonymity; he can tell the waiters and owners at the places he visits his first name, and it’s unusual enough that normally no one connects _Aziraphale_ to the famous (famous! He still denies it) wine and food blogger. By the time he’s offering someone his credit card, they’re usually deep in conversation, and for whatever reason people rarely look at _Aziraphale Fell_ and connect the dots.

Aziraphale waves a hand in the air towards Warlock, and settles in for takeoff with his little bottle of wine. He’s been given a plastic glass for it, which he uses mainly as a chance to try to aerate the poor thing; whites normally don’t take much air at all, but he isn’t really all that hopeful for the little overpriced plastic bottle. He’ll give it any advantage he can, really.

The aroma’s mostly mineral, as expected; that bright fizziness that hisses in the nose almost like medicine. But his first sip is surprising: it’s bright and hard with that mineral flavor, but it carries in a bit of citrus, lemon and grapefruit flavors which end up somehow harmonizing with that brightness, similar to a pinch of sea salt or the scent of wet stone. It’s far too harsh for a Chardonnay - it’s obviously bulk-produced - but as acidic as it has ended up, it isn’t as disappointing as he had expected. In fact, with the richness of the peanuts, it’s a sort of amateur match, and Aziraphale decides he’ll make Gabriel happy for once and write about it in that way.

He sips his way through the bottle while composing the plot of the post in his head; he might be known for his sensitivity to taste, but Aziraphale also subscribes to the theory that while life is too short to drink bad wine, _decent_ wine should never be shunned. The first time he’d said that to Gabriel, wow, he’d gotten quite the shutdown; _we need you to be a snob!_ Gabriel had emoted at him. _We’re branding you for your palate and your good taste, Fell!_ Thinking of it now, Aziraphale rolls his eyes at the clouds moving along below them. It isn’t that he’s changed his ways at all; he’s just learnt to be careful about what he tells his new client / manager / whatever title Gabriel has decided to use on any given day.

Gabriel likes to play games. He’ll call himself Aziraphale’s manager one day, his boss the next, his director after; Aziraphale simply lets it slide. There’s a reason he has Warlock, and that’s to manage his actual affairs; he and Gabriel are on more equal footing than he thinks the other man likes. Then again, that’s an unfair thing to think about the man who has, singlehandedly, set them up for a six month writing vacation in America’s best wine region.

By the time he’s done with the bottle, Aziraphale is feeling the pleasant warmth of it in his cheeks, and he pulls out his current notebook to make notes. Yes, he’s moved on from the handwritten pages he used to give Warlock for transcription and posting when he’d first started his publication, mainly because Gabriel had insisted. But Aziraphale still feels that a good quality pen on good quality paper is the best way to note down the qualities in a wine and, more importantly, how it feels to drink. Warlock - who is in fact asleep, legs sprawled over an armrest and snoring lightly - would be rolling his eyes and telling Aziraphale to go direct to his brand new tablet, but Aziraphale can’t bring himself to leave the handwritten part of it out entirely. He’ll hunt and peck through his first article tonight, once they reach the villa, and everyone’s just going to have to be happy with that.

It isn’t that Aziraphale doesn’t like being able to post his own pictures and text, now that he’s learnt how to do it - again, he might be particular, but he’s not an idiot - it’s more that the more ‘freedom’ he seems to be given over his articles, the less free he actually feels while writing them. These days, his work starts in his handwritten notes and then is typed up into the drafting software for his shiny new blog. The text then goes through Warlock, who checks for any typos and adds the self-promoting kind of links Aziraphale can’t stand thinking about, as well as the tags and categories that make it easier for users to sort through _A Taste of Heaven_ looking for similar posts. Warlock’s work then gets sent to either Ms. Uriel or Mr. Sandalphon for final approval and posting; Mona and John are the final editors that work with Gabriel to ensure ‘anything posted under the FTA name meets the high expectations and matches the brand the FTA family puts forward’ — whatever _that_ means. Warlock has tried to explain branding to Aziraphale probably a dozen times. It isn’t that he doesn’t understand the concept; he just truly doesn’t _care_.

This is a dream job, though: being _paid_ to go on an _all expenses paid_ six-month vacation in California Wine Country? Where else on _earth_ would Aziraphale end up with an opportunity like this? It’s absolutely worth the little hassles and hindrances to be able to pursue opportunity like this, and he knows that very well.

With this cheerful thought, Aziraphale makes notes about the little plastic bottle, keeping in mind he needs to avoid potentially upsetting any vendor that could become a sponsor. _Happily surprised,_ he writes, in carefully curving script; _certainly not to be compared to anything coming out of Burgundy_ (a gentle comment to appease his inner critic), _but for a wine coming out of a plastic bottle, remarkably pleasant. Minerals and sharp citrus. Bright on the tongue. Pair with peanuts to get the most out of that nasal acidity._

His real mental review reads something more like: _it isn’t hogwash, which means I drank it, which means I enjoyed it well enough. Needs to taste less like a Brillo pad._ He’ll leave those notes alone in his mind for Warlock when he wakes up, though.

Wine consumed and notes taken, Aziraphale relaxes his seat back a few centimeters and settles in, shutting his own eyes. A brief nap before they land sounds absolutely lovely.

———

The San Francisco airport isn’t anything remarkable - same busy people, same airport stench, same clutter and noise - but it’s relatively simple for he and Warlock to make their way to the baggage claim, and then to the car rental. As expected, Gabriel has reserved some sort of luxury sport utility vehicle - why he thought they’d need to seat seven people is _beyond_ Aziraphale entirely, although it does leave them plenty of space for wine - with multicolor LED lighting inside and a sunroof and a console that makes it look like a spaceship with real wood accents. Aziraphale leaves that all to Warlock; he absolutely abhors driving, while Warlock loves it, which is one of many reasons their odd partnership works out.

“A fucking Benz,” Warlock’s saying as they approach the sleek behemoth. “Gabriel gave us a fucking Mercedes-Benz. I will never get tired of this shit.”

“Language,” Aziraphale says idly; he absolutely doesn’t care and can himself be as foul-mouthed as the next young millennial, but he likes to tease Warlock about it occasionally.

“Bugger off,” Warlock tells him cheerfully in an absolutely awful British accent, and Aziraphale giggles despite himself.

It’s nearly two hours in the car, because Warlock wanted to take the scenic Route 1 up the coastline rather than the quicker, hour-and-change route through the midland. Aziraphale doesn’t mind; the coast is gorgeous, all rocks and sea and surprisingly lush greenery for this early in April. Specks of color mark where flowers are starting to speckle the landscape. Warlock opens the windows and sunroof and speeds terribly, as is his wont, occasionally whooping aloud when fresh sea air rushes through the windows. Aziraphale hangs on to his armrest and the handle and breathes very, very deeply.

The drive back east, into wine country, is even more intriguing. It’s made nearly entirely of hills and turns and hilly turns and turny hills and the kind of thing that might make Aziraphale ill to his stomach. Warlock’s need for speed has been humbled by the bulk of their vehicle, though, so what they notice most is the _temperature._ It’ll be near 75, and humid, and then Warlock makes a turn and heads down a hill and it’s somewhere round 50 and the heater’s on.

“Yeah, it’s the way it works,” Warlock tells him when Aziraphale closes his window for the fourth time and asks whether this is absurd. “Looked it up when I was checking out Route 1. The mountains make these little pockets — hot from the sea, then cool in the shadows. Pretty neat, isn’t it?”

Aziraphale thinks it’s inconvenient more than anything, but he admits it’s interesting. Part of why California’s wine country is so diverse, really; all of these little microclimates mix with the earth and the weather to create unique little spots all over that are perfect for _some_ sort of grape varietal.

He’s quite exhausted from the car and the flight and the strangeness of it all, so when they first pull up to the villa, Aziraphale’s first thought is, _oh, thank heavens._ His second thought, much less charitable, is, _what the bloody hell?_

This isn’t a villa. It’s a _mansion_ , almost: the sign reads _Le Petit Voile,_ which is the name Gabriel gave them, but this is _not_ what Aziraphale had been expecting in the slightest.

“Holy shit,” says Warlock, his eyes wide.

“Holy shit indeed,” Aziraphale echoes, which makes Warlock laugh. “Are you sure we’re at the right address?”

“Yeah,” Warlock tells him, waggling his mobile. “I just. Did Gabriel mention it was...?”

“What, a place that sleeps twenty-four? No, he absolutely did not.”

Aziraphale manages to get his stiff limbs out of the car and stops to stretch as best he can while Warlock rummages around in the back of the behemoth, pulling out the luggage they’d traveled with. He notes the lights are on, and steps up to the door to ring the doorbell as Gabriel had instructed.

It opens on a charming lady, already smiling at them. “Coo-ee,” she says, simpering and yet somehow genuine. “You must be Mister Fell and Mister Dowling! Do come in, I’ll put the kettle around, send the Sergeant out for your luggage, if you will?”

Aziraphale extends a hand, already smiling. “Aziraphale, if you please, ma’am.”

“Call me Tracy,” she tells him, with a flash of teeth: “or Madame Tracy if you’re a bit naughty.”

Aziraphale hears Warlock snort behind him, and moves out of the way to introduce his assistant. There’s an odd-looking old man pulling their luggage from the boot; this must be Tracy’s Sergeant. She’s already bundling them through the door, and the place is spacious and ridiculous all at the same time, and it’s absolutely as _lovely_ as it is _gratuitous._

“Come right through here, then,” Tracy tells them, gesturing, “it must have been a long day for you, dearies. Look, there’s a sitting room off to your right, the library to your left. This will be your main living room, as they say, and here through the dining room is your kitchen. I’ve stocked the fridge, like your man asked, do take a seat while I start the kettle.” Her accent is — not as stale British as Aziraphale knows his own can sound to Americans, but familiar; she’s from somewhere on the continent, although her vowels have rounded enough that Aziraphale can tell she’s been American for some while.

Each of the rooms Tracy points out is at least the size of the studio apartment Warlock had been living in, if not larger. The ‘main living room’ is more a great room, and the dining room table could easily seat twelve. The decor is a blend of the simple and the ostentatious, leaving the place with a charming and slightly off-putting feel. It’s lovely, Aziraphale has to admit, even if it’s not entirely his taste.

Warlock meets his eyes over the table as they sit and makes some kind of gesture with his hands that’s meant to encompass — heavens only knows what. Aziraphale shrugs, because what else can he do?

“I don’t think you’ll need a tour of the upstairs quite,” Tracy continues, starting up the burner on the stovetop and filling the kettle. “It’s just bedrooms and baths up there, plus a nice big room with a telly and some couches for relaxation. There’s a master suite right round that corner, Mister Fell, got it all nice and ready for you. Mister Dowling, all of the bedrooms upstairs are fresh clean, pick whichever one suits you.”

“Uh,” says Warlock. Aziraphale adds, “Thank you,” with what he wants to be a stern look; it just makes Warlock grin.

“Now, I’ll be round in the mornings on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays to do your housekeeping.” Tracy pulls four mugs out from a cabinet and sets them on the counter. “Right now all I can find is English Breakfast, lads, will that do?”

“That’ll do nicely,” Aziraphale replies, shooting a look at Warlock that should tell him _you’ll drink your tea and be polite about it!_ Warlock, unashamedly American, normally drinks coffee or nothing.

“I do my shopping on the weekends,” Tracy continues as she pulls the kettle and pours the hot water, “so I’ve left a pad on the refrigerator. If you want anything extra, write it down and I’ll do my best to get it. Otherwise, I’ll just top off whatever you’ve used that week, come round Monday and make sure you’ve got a full pantry.”

“This is too much,” Aziraphale hears himself saying out loud, and immediately shakes his head. “I, em — I mean no offense, dear, it’s just that this is a lot of work for you. We are perfectly capable of taking care of ourselves for—”

“Nonsense.” Tracy gives him a sweet smile backed with steel. “First off, this is our industry, lovies, and you’ll let us do our jobs as we intend, no nonsense here. Second, it’s already up and paid for by your man. Wanted to spare no expense, make sure the two of you were well taken care of.”

Aziraphale’s mind fills with the unexpected image of hitting Gabriel with a book, but instead he merely says, “Right, then.”

“The Sergeant’s your maintenance man, then.” Tracy sets two mugs before them and brings over a sugar bowl and a little ceramic milk pitcher. They’re even sugar _cubes,_ Aziraphale’s preference; Gabriel has absolutely gone round the twist. “Does the work on all our properties. If anything’s fudging up, do leave a note, or call if it’s an emergency. He comes round Mondays and Fridays with me, makes sure everything’s still running smooth as necessary.”

Aziraphale takes the spoon she hands over to stir his tea. It’s a bag, of course, but not bad; Gabriel must have made recommendations. The man may be an interfering busybody, but he certainly knows how to make an impression.

“Wednesdays we do linens,” Tracy continues, settling down into a chair with a sigh. The kitchen table _only_ seats a respectful eight. “That’s bedding and towels, of course, plus whatever you leave for me in the hampers. Laundry services already paid up as well, dearie,” she adds, cutting off Aziraphale’s next question.

Aziraphale resists the urge to rub his hands down his face. He doesn’t need this Madame Tracy laundering his underthings. Gabriel! This is entirely too posh even for him.

“As you go on and adjust to some kind of schedule, if you end up needing any extra or different services, we can work something out. Your man’s left me quite a retainer,” Tracy says glibly, dropping a single sugar cube into her cup. “Anything you need, the Sergeant and I will be happy to provide.”

“Good lord,” Aziraphale says finally. “I wasn’t at all expecting anything this... lovely.”

“Oh, really,” says Tracy, with a breathy tone that makes him, of all things, blush. “We just hope you’ll be happy here.”

The door blusters open and in walks the Sergeant: elderly, although strong enough to carry both of their valises, grunting like an odd pig. “Ah,” Tracy coos. “Here’s my Angus, then, Sergeant Shadwell. Shadwell, say hello to our lovely visitors.”

“Hello to our lovely visitors,” Shadwell mimics back at her, but he does doff his odd hat at them once he sets down their luggage. “You’ll find the luggage you shipped in the living room, laddies. Good day.”

“Don’t mind him.” Tracy’s gaze follows the strange man out the door, an obvious softness on her face. “He loves this place like I do, he just doesn’t… Well. Anyway. Not his job to do all the talking, is it? Do you think you gents will be needing anything else this evening?”

Aziraphale is properly overwhelmed, and Warlock looks the same. “My dear lady,” he says, giving her his warmest smile. “No, I don’t think so.”

“I’ve everything in a notebook, over there under the window, if you need. There’s directions in there, some recommendations, and - oh! - the wireless password, of course. And instructions for the hot tub.” She grins at them, winking at them both as she turns to leave. “Do phone if you need anything, otherwise I’ll be back Monday morning for your housekeeping. I usually arrive here around nine.”

Aziraphale can’t do much but nod as she takes her leave, smiling the entire time. The door shuts and he can hear Warlock exhale behind him.

“Well,” he says. “I guess I’ll go settle in.”

“I’m going exploring,” Warlock announces, dashing around Aziraphale to grab his suitcase and tug it towards the stairs. “No one on Instagram is going to believe this.”

Aziraphale pulls out the handle of his luggage and tugs it along around to where Madame Tracy had indicated. The master suite is, in fact, a suite: there’s what appears to be an honest-to-earth sitting room, portioned off of a bedroom twice the size of the one in Aziraphale’s LA apartment, and a master bath that consists of a sunken-in tub with jets that could probably seat six, and a shower that’s nearly an acre on its own. Heavens, but this place is ridiculous.

Aziraphale knows why. This is his first big deal with FTA, and Gabriel Archer is not at all subtle. _Here’s what you can have if you can follow our rules!_ He’s telling Aziraphale, right up front. _Years of this, and more, and all we need are your words._ It’s also some kind of a threat, between the lines: _this is also the least of what you’ll lose if you can’t keep up._

Aziraphale doesn’t want to think about that, though, so instead he drops his luggage into the bedroom. The sitting room has a _lovely_ rolled desk, right beside a window looking out into the vineyards around the house, so he pulls out his trusty tablet and sets it up. A quick trip to the kitchens nets him the wireless internet password, and a few minutes later, he’s opening his inbox.

> To: A. Z. Fell <a.z.fell@gmail.com>, A. Z. Fell <azfell@fta.com>
> 
> From: Gabriel Archer <garcher@fta.com>
> 
> CC: Michael Rosa <mrosa@fta.com>, “Warlock Dowling” <warlock.t.dowling@amx.cre.us.gov>
> 
> Re: WELCOME!!!!!
> 
> Hello, Az,
> 
> I’ve timed this email so that it’s the FIRST thing you’ll read once you settle in to Le Petit Voile — so WELCOME to WINE COUNTRY!!! I’ve visited a number of times and I am SURE you’ll have such a lovely time. As I’m SURE you’ve seen, we’ve set you up so that you don’t have to worry about a THING except your wines, your foods, and your WORDS!!
> 
> I know you don’t need the reminder, but you may already be drinking (Haha! And if not, why not!!!) so let me reiterate for everyone’s understanding: We’re expecting a post at least every two days, preferably daily, detailing what you’ve enjoyed that day for your readers. Ideally 85% of your posts will contain a review of either a winery, a wine, or a wine and food pairing you’ve enjoyed — this number needs to stay above 75%, or we’re going to have traffic issues. I’m assuming that won’t be an issue, though, because you’ve got SO MUCH out there. In addition, there’s that little book issue…. We’ll need a professional level first draft ready to go by the time your trip ends in October, at least 50K words describing the joys of Wine Country and why people would want to come and spend their money out there!! Don’t worry, though, you’ve got all 6 mo … even YOU can write at least 250-300 words a day, can’t you!
> 
> I’ll also expect an update on your progress once a week, preferably on Mondays, so that I have something to look forward to. Send your poor old manager some pictures along with those word count updates!!!!!
> 
> If anything comes up, contact us immediately. WE are here for YOU!!!
> 
> Have fun,
> 
> Sincerely,
> 
> _**Gabriel A. Archer** _
> 
> Director, Content Management
> 
> Food & Travel Adventures _(FTA, INC, All Rights Reserved)_

In the time it’s taken Aziraphale to make his way through this note, two additional emails have _pinged_ their way into his inbox. The first is from Michael; the second, from Warlock, apparently from upstairs. Aziraphale first clicks on Michael’s, a reply to Gabriel’s email, sent privately to him.

> Aziraphale — sending the good wishes of Gabriel’s email without the exclamation points. If you have any trouble, **contact me first**. -M

Warlock’s is also a private reply, simply saying _WHAT AN ASSHAT!!!!!!_ Aziraphale snorts at it, but then deletes the evidence. This is the main reason he works from a Gmail account; of course he has an FTA email, but he prefers everything be sent through an independent inbox, even if Warlock scoffs at Gmail. Warlock gets his own share of ribbing back since he’s required to have a fancy complicated government email because of his father’s government work. This is a longstanding source of teasing between them.

Aziraphale sets the tablet up to recharge, and meanders out into the kitchen to see what sort of groceries a woman like Madame Tracy might have bought. To his pleasant surprise, most of it is fresh, vegetables and fruits, and the pantry cupboard is full of classic staples even Aziraphale should be able to manage. Food blogger he might be, but he’s certainly no master chef himself — that being said, even his clumsy hands can handle a pasta dish with some of these lovely fresh tomatoes he’s found in a basket in the pantry.

To his even more pleasant surprise, there’s a Chardonnay in the fridge and a Pinot Noir on the counter, both from some _Hanna Winery;_ the note Tracy has attached to the Pinot Noir tells Aziraphale it’s one of their local favorites. He hums as he opens up the Chardonnay, tipping a splash into one of the glasses he finds after a few false starts. Oh, heavens, it’s a lovely nose, soft citrus and a bit of that vanilla warmth, all just in the aroma; it’s a combination that he hasn’t experienced before, either, something a bit wild. He spends a long moment breathing it in, and then decides that after such a horrid trip, they deserve a little treat.

“Warlock!” Aziraphale calls upstairs. “Come downstairs, dear boy, I’ve opened our very first bottle of the trip.”


	2. Spring Growth and the Taste of Earth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley takes off his sunglasses and rubs a hand over his face. He sighs. No reason to get worked up now; it’s still early. Except that he can feel something on the horizon: it’s like the way he reads the breezes and the fog and the clouds and his own terroir, except it’s all telling him that there’s something significant approaching.
> 
> Oh, _bollocks._ Crowley shakes his head, and to his surprise, laughs out loud. The sound sinks into the rich soil of his garden, and he breathes in; breathes out, slowly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for the kind comments! I'm SO excited people are interested in this kind of story, because it's really very important to me. 
> 
> Now it's time to meet Anthony J. Crowley and his winery / vineyard crew...

It’s April, the first week, and everyone’s waiting for budburst, but Crowley sniffs at the air and flicks his tongue against a patch of soil and knows it’s at least two weeks off. Adam might argue with him, but this is his land, and he knows it; March was cooler than usual and not as wet, and while his vines are all simmering with spring, they aren’t ready to burst into that boil. Not yet.

He’s in the Zin, though, these old vines that tend to take their time; Crowley stands up and heads off to the Chardonnay. His vineyard’s considered small by industry standards, but it includes surprisingly variable terroir - such that he has two Pinot fields that produce entirely different mouthfeel - and it’s worth checking out what he knows are the hotspots: the Chardonnay vines with so much vigor he can’t ever prune enough, and that one spot of Pinot Noir planted densely that always seems to explode in May.

It’s still chilly this morning. They’ll be lucky if it hits fifty degrees Fahrenheit (his London-born brain still works the conversion, clumsily; for all he lives here, now, the American system is shite). It’s just past dawn so he’s wearing his giant oversized hoodie, his hair tumbling out of a messy bun. Still, his fingers are cold as he presses them into the ground beneath the Chardonnay vines; takes a pinch of it, rubs it between chilly fingertips, sniffs at it. Drags his fingers along the dry brown trunk of the scion; rolls a cordon between forefinger and thumb. Yes, these vines are only a few days from budburst, he thinks. Next year he really needs to think about caning these.

The sky is still a cool pink-blue as Crowley makes his way back to the buildings. _Ecdyses_ is a simple layout: One L-shaped building, the short wing for the crushing and the long wing for the fermenting and aging. The tasting room and the cafe, a sort of oblong-rectangle bit, with the kitchen and offices behind. The bit that serves as his place: bottom rooms for show, even though only a handful of people ever come in; top floors for Crowley, alone, the peak of privacy. The old production bit he always intends to rework; their bottling process takes up a good corner, but there’s plenty of space left in there for whatever he wants to expand into next.

 _Ecdyses_ doesn’t do tours. They don’t do showings. People can wander a bit in the vines closest to the tasting room since they’re mostly for show, but that’s about it, and his gardens are _absolutely_ off-limits. Crowley’s not really interested in the dog-and-pony show, the circus part of being a winery, and he isn’t going to be, no matter how many times Bee tries to convince him to open up a little.

(They’d also wanted to rename the place. “It’s hard to say,” they’d yelled at him. “It’s seven bloody letters,” Crowley’d returned; “and three bloody syllables. Just like it’s spelled. _Ek_ -de-sees.”

“Sounds like Ecstasy,” Bee had grumbled. “Just rename it.”

“I will not,” Crowley had told them, and that was that.)

Crowley stops in the kitchens and starts the coffeemaker. There’s one in his place, of course, but his people are going to start arriving soon, and some days he likes to pretend at being a nice, benevolent boss. It keeps them on their toes. The kitchen’s shiny; Brian and Newt keep it in good shape, but Crowley likes surprise inspections, too.

There’s a sort of peace he gets from these kinds of mornings, Crowley thinks, as he crosses the short space back to his place. He doesn’t miss the hustle and bustle of London on mornings like this; there’s a sort of nostalgia about it, thinking about the lively city all around him, but it’s a melancholy one in a few different ways. Crowley swallows those thoughts down into the dark pit of his stomach and breathes the air. The chill of dawn, the fog off of the ocean and the river, and the scent of the anticipation of spring: it’s more than he thought he’d have at this point.

There’s a quick shower and then the long ordeal of getting ready for the day. He towels at his hair briefly and leaves it a sodden mess down his back as he picks out today’s clothing: the charcoal skinny jeans, almost black with a bit of wear at the seams and across the thighs; a thick black-and-grey tee, the pattern so faint only someone with as much attention to detail as him would be able to pick it out; his most fitted black blazer with the pale-grey lining that peeks out at the cuffs sometimes. A silver scarf today, he thinks, knotted; maybe a silver chain. Sunglasses; always the sunglasses, although for now he tucks them in the v-neck of the tee, since there’s no one around.

Crowley returns to the bathroom long enough to blot out his hair even more, using whatever fancy towel Pepper had got him for Christmas last year citing _made for curls, Crowley, you really do need to stop treating your hair like a monster_ and _eliminates damage, no, you don’t towel off hair like yours, Jesus, are you an imbecile_ and _lord knows I don’t care what you look like but since you seem to care so much, well,_ and Crowley had made a point not to tell her how well it works. He leaves it down, slightly damp, so that it can dry as much as it can before he has to put it up.

At this point it’s just past 7:30 when Crowley slips back into the kitchen. He nicks one of Newt’s croissants from the display, to have something to pick at, as he flicks on his tablet and loads up the suite of software The Them use to monitor and manage most of his goings-on.

Anathema shows up at 8:00 most of the time. She doesn’t have to; she and Newt don’t technically start until 9:00, and _technically_ they’re meant to stagger the mornings so they aren’t working continuous fourteen-hour days, but Anathema’s been bitten by and has succumbed to the lifestyle of the vineyard. The life isn’t for everyone, but there’s a certain type of folk who _live_ this, who _love_ this life: the terroir, the growth, the budburst and the ripening and the harvest; the silky tastes in the back of your throat, the analogy of flavors on the tongue. Anathema has become one of those, and _Ecdyses_ is the center of her life, now, like it is Crowley’s. (Newt has nothing of that person in him, but since Anathema is the center of _his_ life, he kind of comes as an accessory. Not that Crowley means it as belittlement - Newt’s steady, friendly personality and skill with an oven make him a critical part of their day-to-day operations - but Newt doesn’t have the _fever_ of it, the _need_ to touch the ground and taste the grape.)

For Crowley, even, it’s less about the vines and more about the _growing,_ the _creation_ of it, from rootstock to bud to juice to wine, that process over the years of _making_ something with his own land and his own hands. Gardening gives him the same high, to be honest. But it’s true that the process of it lives in his soul in a way not much else has. He sees echoes of it in Anathema, and even in Adam, but the only person he’s yet met who is as feral over the entire process as himself is Anathema’s great-something-aunt, Agnes.

Crowley picks through the day’s activities: deliveries for the cafe, a tour bus stop round 15:00, some special tasting round half seven. Like always, he’ll be able to simply drift, observing his creation from afar as he likes.

Technically the tasting room and cafe open at 9:00, but the only people who show up are folks wanting one of their pastries or the die-hards who like to spend their entire day tasting until their mouths rot from it. (Brian, technically, does start at 8:00, but is nearly perpetually late. Since the cafe still has piping hot fresh pastry to serve the few old couples who show for it, no matter who’s there, Crowley has decided not to care. He hates having to manage staff.)

They’re usually empty or near it until 11:00 when the first of the lunch rush shows up. Crowley lets his staff do whatever they like when there are no customers - one of the reasons they’re all willing to put in so many hours - and he knows Anathema reads, Newt and Brian and Wensleydale watch cooking shows or play that racing game, Adam chats with Pepper or takes turns around the vineyard. There’s a well-equipped break room with a couch for napping. The winery can be intense, and Crowley’s the kind owner that wants support and is absolutely willing to look the other way when people need a break. Besides, they’re all on salary anyway.

Lunch rush lasts until round 14:00, which is when the tasting rush picks up. Crowley spends his time - on days he can deal with people - behind the counter, adding color commentary to Newt and Anathema until one of them snaps and reveals he’s the owner. Technically the cafe closes at 16:00, but they keep soup and sandwiches and leftover pastries and a few of the simpler apps in stock for people who need a little snack with their wine; there’s no proper dinner service but plenty of cheese-and-cracker plates. The tastings usually peter out by maybe 19:00 or 20:00. At this point Crowley reads the room and decides whether they’re going to stay open pouring full glasses like a bar, or if they’re going to close the doors and relax before they do it all the next day.

The days are long, yeah. That’s the life. But they work together at it - The entire Them knows how to work the tasting room when they need to, although Crowley rarely lets Pepper interface with the public for the sake of his own nerves - and even he’s been known to put together a sloppy sandwich on days the kitchen’s empty. Everyone gets two days off a week and they work together Sunday evenings (when they absolutely, decisively, close at 18:00 no matter what) to make sure everybody’s days off line up accordingly.

Everyone, that is, except for Crowley, whose life continues to revolve, saturated, round these thirteen acres gifted to him by some unknown relative eleven years ago like some blessing from a Lord he really doesn’t believe in.

Right around 8:00, he hears the door open and slips his sunglasses on his face. It isn’t that Anathema’s never seen his eyes; it’s the principle of the thing, really. Plus, sometimes she brings Newt in this early, and the poor kid’s always a bit discomfited by the glasses, which Crowley enjoys. He isn’t _evil,_ or even _mean_ per se, but he really does like taking the piss out of Newt.

“Morning!” Anathema breezes into the staff kitchen with her usual no-nonsense cheer. Anathema’s some kind of gift, although Crowley still isn’t sure what sort. She’s been with him for almost nine years, and she’s starting to leave her own fingerprints on the place: calm, direct, with this air about her as if she knows what’s going to happen a few seconds before it does, always prepared for anything. She’s been through the worst of Crowley’s moods, the most horrible of their weather, the absolute shittiest of their financial years. She’s one of the few who knows why Bee really comes around, that they aren’t just an old friend of Crowley’s.

She’s also clearly a California hippie. The long skirts and the gothic lace and the corsets look like she crawled right out of a modern reenactment of a witch trial; the hair and glasses make her look painfully American. And she’s up to her eyelids in crystal therapy and Tarot cards and palm readings and visions. It’s terribly annoying and she’s terribly awful and she might be Crowley’s best friend, he isn’t really sure of that either.

Crowley grunts and gestures at the pot, turning his attention back to the tablet. Anathema vanishes briefly to stow her coat and bag in her office, and then returns to take down two mugs and fill them. “What’s on the plate today, boss?”

“Nothing new,” Crowley drawls out as he takes a long sip of the coffee. “Tour bus. Tasting. Probably the usual.” April’s right at the end of their rainy season, which means business is still slow, although tourists looking to come in the off-season visit year-round. “Oh, west lot of Chard’s gonna crest this week.”

“Finally.” Anathema breathes in the vapor of her coffee and sighs, happily. “That’s like... the real beginning of Spring, you know?”

“You were literally just telling me about the Equinox last week,” Crowley points out, and Anathema just rolls her eyes at him. “Its importance in some daft ritual of yours, right?”

“The turn of Spring on the calendar and the appearance of Spring in the earth are both powerful,” Anathema tells him, lowering her voice dramatically. Crowley still isn’t sure whether she believes in witchcraft, practices as a Wiccan, or is just enthusiastically interested in it as a hobby; he doesn’t really mind as long as she leaves it to her private office and the corner he gives her during busy summer and fall weekends to do Tarot readings for pocket money. Mostly, they tease each other about it, which is Crowley’s preferred type of relationship with anyone.

They sit in silence and sip their coffee in contemplation. It’s a Monday, the start to their business week, and Crowley can feel something in the air: it’s like the encroaching budburst is a noise, building in the background, or a scent he can feel on his skin.

Then the door smashes open, Brian and Newt tumbling in a mess of hoodies and terrible sneakers, and Crowley exchanges a look with Anathema as they stand up to open for the day.

———

 _Ecdyses_ isn’t a big winery. Thirteen acres, but only ten are producing; and he wouldn’t be anywhere near where he was if She hadn’t granted it to him already aged and grown, with existing equipment and some idea of what it was supposed to do. It wouldn’t be anywhere near where it is if Crowley didn’t have his crew: Anathema and Newt, The Them, the rest of his crew and consultants. Hell, it wouldn’t be anywhere near this state if it weren’t for Bee’s money, a credit he doesn’t like making but has to acknowledge anyway.

The thing is, even if April has the beginnings of budburst, Spring is still their second slowest season customer-wise. Crowley lets everyone cut their hours as they need, knowing that he’s gonna take it out of their bones when autumn rolls around. So things move normally, but slowly. Right now it’s really just Anathema, Newt, and Brian; Anathema’s got her nose in one of her urban fantasy books, Newt’s sweating over cinnamon rolls in the bakery, and Brian’s playing whatever MMO he’s into this month in the break room until Newt gets out of the way and lets him prep some sandwiches.

Even now, they have their regulars: usually retirees who’ve settled out here for their bones or health or some shit, who show up around 10AM and order one of Anathema’s mimosas with their egg sandwich. (Crowley absolutely does _not_ make any sort of sparkling wine, but they have a trade in cases with a local place that does, mainly so that they can sell something decent on their menu and Anathema can make mimosas. It seems silly, but they sell, so Crowley allows them their crate or two of his second-best Pinot Noir and lets it go.)

So there are only five people in the place: some poor tourist who seems lost and only wanted a coffee and a croissant, the Robinsons, and — oh, it’s the Shadwells, who may not be Crowley’s favorite people but are some of his favorite entertainment. Madame Tracy has the _naughtiest_ stories once you get a glass or two into her, and the Sergeant isn’t any fun until Crowley’s making fun of him. Plus, Crowley personally loves them cause they’ll order a full bottle with breakfast no matter how early it is, and he finds that kind of dedication to the life incredibly endearing. Good, he’ll have something to do after all.

He makes his way over to their table, taking his time, letting himself settle into his friendly old viticulturist, winery-owner persona; that poor tourist looks up from her coffee, choking a bit on it, but Tracy makes this noise that’s some embarrassing kind of coo and gets up from her chair.

“Anthony,” she greets him, which he hates unless it’s her.

“Madame Tracy.” He returns her hug, and then holds out her chair as she re-settles, which makes Shadwell prickle. “Sergeant.”

“Flash bastard,” Shadwell calls him, and Crowley preens at it. Horrible nicknames are part of Shadwell’s sense of humor. It isn’t for everyone, but Crowley likes horrible, so it works.

“What’s on the ticket today?” He settles in and waves a finger in the air, which is supposed to tell Anathema to bring his coffee. It takes him a few seconds to catch her attention, but she finally gives him a big frown and a big sigh before doing so.

“Oh, well, we’ve already split a croissant,” Tracy tells him, “and Newton promised us a nice cinnamon roll once they pop out. Angus is having his omelette, as always, but I’m just getting a bowl of fruit until that cinnamon roll shows up.”

“Gambling on Newt?” Crowley asks her, timing it right as Anathema shows up so that he can enjoy her insulted huff along with Tracy’s simpering smile. “I’m sure it’ll be fine. And what’s your bottle of choice?”

“Oh,” Tracy titters, and Anathema stops to wait, giving Crowley this glare that only makes him smile more. “We’d thought we’d start with the Song of Solomon, you know, our usual.”

That’s _Ecdyses_ ’s most popular Chardonnay, and Crowley gives her a smile, because that means he can comp it without getting scolded by Wensleydale — or by Pepper. “Have that bottle on me,” he says, flicking his fingers at Anathema, and this time she steps neatly on his foot where it’s sprawled out against the floor before smiling happily at Madame Tracy and heading back to get it.

“Got us a new renter today,” Tracy tells him, leaning in like it’s the most precious gossip she’s ever heard. “Some big-shot novelist, I guess, right out of L.A. His company’s spared _no_ expense, it’s really quite exciting.”

“Southern pansy,” Shadwell mutters into his coffee mug, but he looks untroubled, so Crowley knows this is just another ‘fond’ Shadwell-style nickname rather than an insult.

“And another coming next week, all the way from England,” Tracy continues. “It’s going to be a good season for us, Anthony, I do say.”

“Glad to hear it,” Crowley tells them, checking at his mobile. Nothing new except for a text from Pepper saying _Stop giving away the wares!_ alongside a couple angry-faced emoji. He texts her back the middle finger and puts the phone down. “Business for you is business for all of us.”

Anathema comes back with the bottle and four glasses, which she sets down on the table. Tracy and Shadwell each get a full pour; Anathema pours a half-glass for herself and Crowley, and sits down in the empty chair, setting the bottle down in the middle and raising her glass. “Cheers, Mrs. S.”

Tracy and Crowley raise glasses to clink, obediently; Shadwell makes a gesture with his towards them and takes a long slurp. The man’s maybe not much class, but he certainly knows what he likes, and Crowley finds he can’t fault him too badly for it.

As Anathema and Tracy take off in one of their usual discussions - Madame Tracy fancies herself a medium, which of course Anathema is profoundly interested in - Crowley picks up his mobile again and uses it as a distraction so that he can trail his gaze around the tasting room behind his sunglasses. (Shadwell’s unlikely to notice; the man’s starting the Monday crossword, and Crowley knows he can occasionally struggle with those.)

Their tasting room is modern, clean stone on the walls and warm wood at the bar and the tables; it’s nothing fancy, certainly, but the winery is made to appeal to a certain type of clientele. The cafe itself is meant to remain accessible and unremarkable; Crowley’s only rule is that they rotate names ever so often so that he doesn’t have to worry about the food becoming too well-known in the area. Right now it’s Brian’s month, so the Cafe is duly called _Grapes of Wrath,_ which is so terrible it makes Crowley want to giggle every time he sees it.

It isn’t that _Ecdyses_ is doing poorly - they turn profit even in the winter months, although it’s a slim profit - it’s more the weight of that set of loans that sits on Crowley’s shoulders, a weight on his back, the scent of rot against a wind that should only smell of sharp growth and green leaves. Sure, She’d left him an entire working winery and a vineyard that had been kept mostly up-to-date being leased out to locals, but Crowley’d had to take out money to shape it up, at first, since there’d somehow been no real site manager for the decade before. And then the disaster years had hit California wine country - 2010, 2011 - and he’d had to take out more in loans, plus basically bulldozing three precious acres of vines that just hadn’t made it out of the cold and wet and extreme heat with anything worth saving.

He can make his monthly payments to Bee, and he can make extra payments in the autumn when they’re raking it in, but it isn’t that. It’s that Bee’s firm is trying to maneuver their way into shares of _ownership_ of _Ecdyses,_ and Crowley’s not going to _stand_ for that. Maybe he knows nothing about Her except for Her name and the goddamned paperwork, but like _hell_ he is giving _any_ portion of this - this sanctuary, this haven, this new goddamned Eden he’s been given - to any kind of money-lending investment corporation. No goddamned way.

Shit. He’s got himself worked up now. Crowley takes a deep breath and toasts the three other members of the table before downing his wine, chasing it with coffee after he stands up. Anathema makes a face at him, which Crowley ignores. He heads back with both glass and mug, depositing them in the kitchen before swinging back into the offices.

Both Pepper and Adam are there, which is surprising for this hour, although they must have some other client this afternoon. The Them is the - admittedly strange - name for their consulting firm, which Crowley employs fully because he’s always hated the numbers and the business angle of the entire business and prefers to give someone else money to do it. Despite their odd name and the fact that each of the four of them is an absolute weirdo, The Them knows what they’re doing out here; they specialize specifically in business, finance, and management of local wineries, and they do a properly swell job of it. Crowley’s been their client since 2012: the first absolutely stellar year for the vineyard, and Crowley was dripping in buds and the terroir was delicious and he had a moment of absolute terror thinking that Bee and Dagon would buy him out and he’d be left with nothing but a mountain of cash and then Agnes had — Agnes had given him a business card, and Crowley had called, and hired Adam immediately after their joint interview.

He knows The Them have other clients, but Crowley seems to be their main customer — or, at least, the client that needs the most from them, because they’re always fucking here. They’re all delightfully odd and it’s just horrible.

“Crowley,” Pepper greets him, “you _can’t_ keep giving out the inventory, you know, the customers will come to expect it.”

“No they won’t,” says Adam, spinning in his chair to grin up at Crowley. “Crowley’s a terror. I’d rather the guests expected free bottles of wine than a free _smack down._ ”

“Oh, for Satan’s sake,” Crowley says, collapsing in a stylish sprawl in Adam’s free chair. “Are we still talking about that damn _foodie_ from last week? Everything he knew about Zinfandel he’d found in a _Google search._ ”

“Just _think about it,_ Crowley.” Pepper’s making that face again, the one that seems to say to Crowley that he’s an utter disappointment and that Pepper - at _least_ fifteen years younger - wants to turn him over her knee and smack him. “That poor man could have been the next Robert Parker.”

“Jancis Robinson,” Adam says.

“Heidi Peterson Barrett,” Pepper adds. “A. Z. Fell.”

“ _Kasy Maynard,”_ Adam says, mentioning Crowley’s other favorite critic.

“Oh, shut up,” Crowley tells them both. “I wasn’t being mean because he was inexperienced. I was being mean because he thought his whole _two hundred views a month_ entitled him to a free bottle of the Reserve!”

“So you admit you were mean,” Pepper declares, like she’s triumphed.

“I never said I wasn’t,” Crowley says, giving her his best leer, which only makes her roll her eyes. Pepper’s one of a kind, really, articulate and picky, with gorgeous dreads that Crowley’s occasionally jealous of. Adam is, of course, as white-boy as they come, but he has his own edge to his good-looks, appearing far more cherubic than he really deserves. Really, he’d lucked out with The Them, and with Anathema and Newt besides. It just makes Crowley wonder about Her, and what She had known about him through whatever channels She’d had to leave him this little slice of paradise.

“That’s AJ Crowley,” Adam crows, and Crowley tries to swat at him while Adam wheels his chair across the office. “Well-known asshole extraordinaire.”

“If I don’t have that on a business card in the next three to five business days, you’re all fired,” says Crowley, and Adam’s fierce grin cancels out Pepper’s awful wince and suddenly the day feels better.

———

Crowley ends the day back out in the soil, as always. They’d closed up around 19:00 today, early enough for them. The sun’s just setting, and it’s twilight as he walks through his garden. One of the things he loves about this land is that California can grow things year-round; there are seasons for everything, and in eleven years he’s learnt enough to have the garden producing full-time. This month he should be able to harvest his onions, his cabbage, probably the asparagus and maybe some carrots.

The vineyard is for making: for growing and aging, for crushing and mixing, for sharing and showing. The garden is _his._

He cooks, some. He gives a lot of it away to Anathema and Newt, who cook more complicated things than Crowley — his cooking is simple, clean, probably boring. He doesn’t eat much; he certainly doesn’t need two pounds of asparagus on any given week. It’s the act of the growing; a garden that’s beautiful, a garden that provides. (Crowley himself knows what he’s referencing, and hates it.)

It’s a show garden, except that Crowley doesn’t let anyone anywhere _near_ it. He isn’t sure why; it’s gorgeous, flowers and vegetables staggered so that there are blossoms and colors and food every month of the year, but it’s private. It’s _his._

The Ceanothus - California lilac - is tumbling over itself this year, bunches of blue and white star-shaped little things dividing the space between his carrots and where the peppers will go. His irises look prolific this year, too; sensitive little buggers they are. It’s taken Crowley a few years to cultivate them in this kind of soil, but he thinks he’s finally figured it out.

He can still feel that rush, the tension at the back of his neck. Budburst is the second most exciting time of the year; it’s also the time Crowley’s massive anxiety and imposter syndrome complex start showing up in his dreams. The success of a winery depends on their budbreak and every year, even after eleven years of this place, Crowley becomes convinced it’s all going to come crashing down on him.

Then again, his first career did. Little Armageddon, that. No wonder he’s still waiting for the other shoe to fall.

Crowley takes off his sunglasses and rubs a hand over his face. He sighs. No reason to get worked up now; it’s still early. Except that he can feel something on the horizon: it’s like the way he reads the breezes and the fog and the clouds and his own terroir, except it’s all telling him that there’s something significant approaching.

Oh, _bollocks._ Crowley shakes his head, and to his surprise, laughs out loud. The sound sinks into the rich soil of his garden, and he breathes in; breathes out, slowly.

Then he heads inside, where he knows there’s a glass of Apocalypse waiting for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next update, next Wednesday: _they finally meet omg, after 10K words_
> 
> _why am i like this_
> 
> I love comments, and/or [come yell at me on tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/sevdrag) (sevdrag)!!


	3. That Very First Hint of Blush

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale struggles to get settled in California's Russian River Valley, and finds a _gem_ of a winery with a curiously enthralling owner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ITS WEDNESDAY MY DUDES!!!!
> 
> i want to point out that it's almost exactly 11K when they finally look at each other for the first time lakdfhlksgf why am i like this why does anyone like me

Aziraphale wakes up on Saturday morning - his first official day on duty in Wine Country - and every single goddamned bone in his body yells at him and tells him to just roll over.

It’s actually fair; he and Warlock had finished both of the bottles Tracy had set out for them, and then under some _fairly_ compromised judgment they’d opened a third bottle, some ridiculous name scrawled across it in a script like a snake, from the small but solid collection Tracy had apparently put aside for them as a starter pack. Shame he couldn’t remember it, since he’d spent the evening attempting to light the fireplace without smoking the two of them out while Warlock mocked him and peeled all the labels off the bottles. Any evidence they might have had was burnt at this point; Aziraphale has faith they’ll come across it again, though, because Tracy and Shadwell seemed to have decent taste, and any white that has as much flavor as he thought he remembered would eventually come back across his path, he’s absolutely sure of it.

The late night plus the flight, the stress of the travel, the worry Aziraphale always carries with him: today is, quite distinctly, what Warlock would call a _no._

Either way, the master bed has been been made up with some ridiculous thread count of a cotton-silk blend that’s absolutely stroking at his skin, and the April chill is evident in the air, and Aziraphale lets his eyes roll back into his head as he tugs the comforter back up over his shoulder and lets his head fall into the pillow again.

———

A few hours later - probably; Aziraphale hasn’t exactly kept track of his watch - he’s hit with the scent of coffee, the aftertaste of tea in the air, and the bumbling noises of Warlock singing to himself while attempting to make breakfast. After a moment Aziraphale also picks up on the scent of burnt toast, the sizzle of what’s probably eggs, a delicate hint of something sweet — look, all of his senses have been finely trained in the art of culinary detection, it’s his _job,_ and while never of them will ever make Top Chef at least Warlock’s the better cook out of the two of them.

Aziraphale rolls himself out of this luscious bed and paws through his luggage to find his bathrobe, which he tucks neatly over his pyjamas. He and Warlock have done plenty of these trips together, and one of the ways they manage to continue to not murder each other is by adhering to strict standards of propriety to avoid any sort of awkwardness.

Warlock’s in plaid flannel pajama pants and a tee with one of his superhero logos on it - Aziraphale can’t tell them apart - and bare feet, his hair a mess. It’s quite adorable, although Aziraphale knows if he says anything of the sort Warlock will spit in his tea while laughing. Instead, Aziraphale mumbles some kind of good morning and beelines for the mug he sees Warlock has set aside by the stovetop.

“Good morning yourself.” Warlock chuckles at him, and gestures towards the table, where he’s mangled a couple oranges open and displayed a couple decent pieces of toast with butter and jam beside.

Aziraphale nearly constantly wonders at how lucky he’s been, hiring Warlock Dowling. There aren’t a lot of young gents who would be willing to make their entire career the (nearly) full-time care of a doddering older man who can barely work his own mobile and drinks far more than necessary for a living. Warlock isn’t with Aziraphale daily, when they’re in LA, but he’s certainly dealing with Aziraphale’s business daily — and then there are times like this, trips Aziraphale takes for his own budding career, and here’s Warlock, giving up six months of his own life in Los Angeles to bum around wine country with the author of _A Taste Of Heaven_. Who does that?

But Warlock seems content, in his quiet, sarcastic way. Aziraphale knows his home life isn’t anything Warlock misses, and what social life he has in LA seems to revolve as much around his mobile device as anything in-person. Warlock, at times they’re deeper into the wine than strictly required by the job, seems grateful to not have to deal with a corporation or a hierarchy or, worse, the government; Warlock’s happy, it seems, to spend his time managing Aziraphale’s affairs, with all the freedom and opportunity A. Z. Fell’s career provides.

Bless him. Someone out there is looking out for Aziraphale. He never would have made it onto FTA’s radar without Warlock’s lovely guidance and rather ruthless negotiating skills.

“Look,” says Warlock, interrupting Aziraphale’s train of thought. “Fried eggs. This one should even be runny, like you like it.” He tilts the pan, flopping two misshapen but well-cooked eggs onto Aziraphale’s toasties.

“Are you expecting a raise?” Aziraphale teases, even as he pokes at the yolks; he prefers his eggs with the whites cooked but the yolk absolutely as runny as possible. These seem legitimate, better than Warlock’s standard fare; he wonders how many burnt ones Warlock has thrown into the trash.

Warlock snorts. “Are you joking? If this book does as well as it’s projected to be, I’m demanding a raise. No, fuck that. I’m _giving myself_ a raise.”

“If the book does that well, I’ll be expected to do another one,” Aziraphale says with a sigh. “I’ll double your raise to make sure you don’t abandon me.”

“Note to self,” Warlock says, talking into his Fitbit in that joking manner he has, as if he’s making recordings. “On this day, Saturday April - fuck, what day is it - whatever, Aziraphale has promised to double my raise. Hold out for a triple or bust.”

“Sit down and eat, you’re making me hungry just looking at you.” Aziraphale finds a knife and fork amongst the mangled segments of orange, and digs into his eggs. Yes, there’s plenty of yolk to dip his buttered toast into; he piles a bit of the eggs on top of the toast and takes a bite. Rich, savory, simple. Is there anything better?

“So,” Warlock says, collapsing into a pile of limbs next to Aziraphale. “While _you_ got Gabriel’s welcome note, _I_ got a list of suggestions from Michael for your first week or two out here. Wanna hear?”

“Of course,” Aziraphale says, stifling a sigh. He realizes he is here _entirely_ on someone else’s dime and dollar, absolutely at their service, performing a function of his current career, but — a part of him misses his old days, when he could stray out from under the watchdog for a bit, find some old places tucked into the shady corners and abandoned hills. “What do we have?”

Warlock pulls his mobile out and starts flipping through it with his left hand, steadily shoveling his eggs - scrambled, with what looks like an excess of cheese - into his mouth. “Well, she recommends we start at Kendall-Jackson.”

“Oh, good lord,” Aziraphale murmurs. He absolutely _hates_ reviewing the larger industry standard wines — they are what they are: good wines at a decent price, accessible for the common individual who just wants something that tastes relatively friendly. Aziraphale came to wine tasting for the _nuance:_ the hints of flavor around the grape, the shadows of aroma, the textures of the mouthfeel. He’s here for the unusual, the stunning, the superb. Any old wine blogger can review a mass-produced wine just as well as he can. (A part of him, snobbish and high-English, finds it ...beneath him, really, which he knows is incredibly rude, but he wasn’t born perfect.)

“I am _not_ having my first tasting at a winery whose work I can find in the local grocery,” Aziraphale tells Warlock.

“Fuck off,” Warlock says cheerfully, still paging through his phone. “Alright, she has a couple of other recommendations beneath that. Two categories: big places that readers will expect you to review, and little places that have gotten big reviews by _other_ wine critics that she wants your opinion on.” He pauses, still scrolling. “And most of them also have _food._ ” His tone turns upwards, obviously teasing. “Michael certainly knows how to get _you_ interested.”

Aziraphale rolls his eyes into the sky. “Does Kendall-Jackson have a restaurant, then?”

Warlock’s grin turns victorious.

———

It turns out that the Kendall-Jackson Wine Estate & Gardens are quite lovely, if a bit — bland isn’t the word; maybe _expectable_ is a better one. The gardens, of course, are only just starting to venture into the air, but Aziraphale can picture it being quite lovely come summer, all tall varietals and humming bees. They spend some time walking around, and Warlock snaps a good number of photos that he’ll later add to whatever blog post Aziraphale comes up with; Aziraphale occasionally takes his own photos, but he prefers to post them with minimal text, for the effect. That’s another of Warlock’s responsibilities as Aziraphale’s first editor.

He continues to duck out of most of the photos, though. It isn’t like the blog doesn’t have a professionally-done portrait of A. Z. Fell, well-renowned wine and food critic, right up there, but — Aziraphale likes what anonymity he can gather. Too many photos of himself, and people will start to _recognize_ him. He takes comfort in knowing that the portrait on the blog had been arranged by Gabriel, which had put Aziraphale in a black suit with a starched-white shirt and a particularly trendy tie — none of which is his personal preference. So far, he’s been able to go most places in his comfortable waistcoats and sweater-vests and only a rare few have been able to match his actual face with that overly-suave headshot.

Warlock captures a good one of him from behind, though, which Aziraphale decides he’ll allow: it’s over his shoulder, so all you can see are his pale-blond curls and the crest of his coat over his shoulder, and then the vineyards beyond. It’s actually quite lovely, and Gabriel will at least be happy that he’s let himself be captured in something his readers will see.

 _The samples here are quite lovely,_ Aziraphale writes into his notebook once they’re managing their tastings. _I’m surprised by the freshness._ It’s all double-entendre, things no one but he will know are there, in between the spaces of his words. _Wines are quite accessible. The Reserves, of course, bring additional flavors to bear. I quite like the Chardonnay Grand Reserve: big notes of fruit, almost tropical, with the aroma of honey overlaid atop something that’s almost mango. Very unique._

Warlock peeks into his book as he’s writing and Aziraphale murmurs, _too bland to be a real Chardonnay, but I’m going to reword that,_ and Warlock laughs so hard he snorts his Merlot.

 _The Grand Reserve Dessert Wine is one to be bargained with,_ Aziraphale adds after he and Warlock have tasted nearly twelve different wines - plus a glass of the one Pinot Noir that carried a distinctly different flavor profile - because he’s feeling pleasantly tipsy and a little sassy. _A blend of six different varietals, it packs a sweet punch to your throat with flavors that start by dressing up vanilla and cream, take a naughty walk through red berries, and end up sinking down into the bed of espresso, black pepper, and leather. Absolutely worth the cost._

Warlock, when he reads that, laughs so hard he has to put his head down on the bar, and Aziraphale signals to purchase a bottle of the Grand Reserve Dessert Wine to take home.

———

Aziraphale elects to spend the evening in the lovely library, putting together his first two articles. Warlock heads out for a bit, citing research, but Aziraphale’s fairly certain he just wants to drive that ridiculous behemoth of a car at monstrously high speeds, and leaves him to it. He has a glass of a Sauvignon Blanc he found in the refrigerator that’s got luscious notes of citrus and lavender, he has a plate full of little nibbles, and his trusty, idiot-proof tablet ready to go.

He pulls out his notebook, flips through the few pages of notes he has, and starts the blog post about his travels that will officially launch this ridiculous endeavor.

———

Most of the wineries have limited hours on Sundays, so Aziraphale and Warlock only make one stop the next day. It’s a tidy little place called _Elyse,_ and exactly the thing Aziraphale was hoping to find. There’s no food, but every single red he tastes there is divine, and they spend an incredibly long afternoon sampling increasingly expensive bottles from years prior. Aziraphale’s especially interested in the Napa and Sonoma golden years - 2012 through 2014 - and the young man behind the counter, recognizing talent if not the name, is more than happy to continue to open $60, $70, $100 bottles of Zinfandel and Cabernet for Aziraphale to sample.

Aziraphale has four neatly-written pages of notes on these, and a selection of three bottles to take home with them. Warlock has the young man’s phone number. (This happens more often than Warlock cares to admit; he may work for a doddering old man, but Aziraphale has come to the conclusion that Warlock is what the young people might call a _catch._ ) All in all, that’s a pleasant afternoon indeed.

Warlock takes him down towards the town of Santa Rosa, where he had spotted signs for a farmer’s market. They pick up a variety of cheeses and Aziraphale has himself a pleasant night pairing up a Pinot Noir from _Elyse_ with each of them, taking notes for a future blog post, while Warlock watches something on his laptop and laughs at Aziraphale.

———

Monday’s a bit disappointing. Uriel sends his first post back to Warlock with a list of SEO she wants him to add, and they have a (...mostly friendly) argument over how they’re going to insert all of these buzzwords to Aziraphale’s tight, friendly prose.

“They’re the ones who want me to write a book!” Aziraphale scoffs at some point, bent over his tablet. “They can’t tell me to change my writing _now!_ ”

Warlock rubs at his forehead with his fingers and sighs. “That isn’t,” he starts, and then sets his own laptop down. “C’mon. Let’s take a break, get some lunch and a visit in. We’ll figure all this out later. There’s a place on Michael’s list, looks like a little hole in the wall. Could be good.”

Except that _Cormac’s Winery_ is not good. At all. _Hole in the wall_ is fairly accurate; it looks like an old concrete storage building turned into someone’s garage turned into a tasting bar with cheesy picnic tables and the atmosphere of a truck rest stop. Aziraphale tries not to judge - not everyone is into the _aesthetics_ of wine tasting - but all of the wines are either watery or too sweet, which is absolutely not to his liking at all. When Warlock orders them a pizza at the counter, trying to console Aziraphale, the grumpy old man takes something out of plastic from the freezer and puts it in the microwave, and that’s it: Aziraphale thanks him kindly and goes to wait in the car while poor Warlock pays.

“Right,” Warlock says as he climbs into the driver’s seat. “Okay.”

He starts the car, and they sit in silence for a moment. Warlock fiddles with the ridiculous ambient lighting, making it first a peach, then a deep blue. He then starts scrolling through his phone, ostensibly for ideas, while Aziraphale breathes through his nose and tries to calm his irritation.

He gets these ... _moods,_ really, where he just feels like tensing his fingers into claws and yelling some particularly inappropriate words at the sky. His writing should be his — except that it isn’t anymore, it’s FTA’s, and he has to put all of these _phrases_ into the sentences of a normal person who just wants to ramble on about Camembert and Cabernet. And it doesn’t make sense to take his anger out on _Cormac’s_ ; surely there are people who must like that wine, since the place is still in business, and he shouldn’t insult things that are just not to his taste at all.

“Here,” Warlock says, and throws the car into gear. “Remember that Sauv Blanc we had the first night that you were in rapture over? We’ll go there. They’ll have at least one thing you’ll like, _and_ there’s an actual cafe.”

Aziraphale is appeased, and reaches over to squeeze Warlock’s shoulder as a quick thank-you.

———

The place is called _Ecdyses,_ and the interior is somehow both stark and lovely: stone on the walls, pale shale moving into the deep grey of something he doesn’t have a name for, all different sizes; it gives the feeling of a riverbed, in a way. The bar is rich, dark wood, with comfortable stools that he and Warlock settle into. The young lady behind the bar gives them a delighted smile: there are a few other customers, but there’s another young man working with them.

“Welcome to _Ecdyses,_ ” she says, immediately coming over to lean on the tasting bar. “I’m Anathema, and I’ll be your tour guide today.”

 _Tour guide!_ How utterly charming. “My name is Aziraphale, and this here is Warlock,” he says, giving her a warm smile in return. “We’re here to explore, but first, I don’t suppose you have a menu on you, do you?”

Anathema reaches beneath the bartop and pulls out a handful of papers. “Here’s this week’s menu, here are the wines we have open today, and here are our tasting options. Oh, and if he pops something else open we write it up.” She gestures at a side wall, where there’s a large chalkboard titled _Today’s Specials._

Aziraphale’s relaxing already. “Oh, this looks lovely. What’s your soup of the day?”

“Potato.” Anathema gives him a long look, then glances over at Warlock, then back to Aziraphale. “I think you’d like it,” she says, entirely confident in that.

An interesting take, but one Aziraphale’s happy to oblige. “Do you perhaps have something bold in a white to pair with that potato soup?”

Anathema slides the papers around until the list of wines is on the top, and taps a blue fingernail against a certain space — and then pauses. “Are you a serious aficionado, or a casual partaker? We deal with all kinds, mind you, but it’s the difference between the $8 glass and the $17 one that I’d personally recommend.”

Well,” Warlock says with a grin, “I’m not sure there’s anyone more serious about pairing wine and soup as this guy.”

Aziraphale sniffs. “I am a _professional,_ ” he corrects Warlock.

“Right.” Anathema gives him another one of those long looks again, as if she’s reading his entire identity in a few seconds. Her tongue darts out to lick at her lip, and then she nods, decisively. “Magnificat Oak 2014 for you. Honey and Psalms for you,” she adds, flicking her fingers at Warlock.

He gives her a lopsided grin. “That had better be the $8 one.”

Anathema’s smile goes mysterious for a second and Aziraphale wonders whether Warlock will be coming home with someone else’s number today.

He glances around as Anathema vanishes into the back, where Aziraphale assumes the kitchens are. The other young man is chatting pleasantly with a group of three older gentlemen at the other end of the tasting bar, discussing something about Zinfandel vines and the lay of the land. He sounds quite intelligent, and Aziraphale listens in half-heartedly as he pulls his notebook from his jacket pocket. There’s someone skulking about in the back - dressed in black; maybe the chef? - and he can hear someone humming something from beyond the tasting rooms.

Anathema reappears with two empty glasses, which she sets in front of them. “For the gentleman,” she starts, and reveals a bottle, obviously chilled. “Magnificat Oak. You don’t often hear _old vines_ as a concept applied to white wines, but we have some of the oldest Chardonnay vines in the region, and we tend them specifically to make the Magnificat. There are two versions. One’s the standard Chardonnay, aged in stainless steel for six months before bottle aging. This one’s the interesting one — we give it six months in oak before we bottle it and tuck it away.”

She pours Aziraphale a generous glass. The color is lovely: honey-gold, a warm gorgeous yellow with excellent clarity. “2014 was, of course, a great year for Chard here. We don’t sell the Magnificat any younger than four or five years - it’s reserve only.”

Aziraphale rotates his glass slowly, watching the lees drip. The wine’s thick, just a bit of viscosity in its spin. He breathes in, deeply: his senses fill with the aroma of honey, and peaches, vanilla and something floral he’s going to have to identify as he goes.

The first sip is surprisingly rich: it’s honey but without the weight to it, sweet and crisp at the same time. Aziraphale thinks of apples, plucked fresh from the tree: it’s that sort of a tartness, with very faint notes of sugar lining it behind. Honeysuckle, he thinks, and just a hint of citrus, like a tease of orange zest; following this, the vanilla-butter mouthfeel of the oak barrels, spread overtop the peaches and honeydew like butter on toast. The flavor lingers in his mouth after he swallows, and he’s reminded again of the crisp sound when one first bites through the skin of an apple. That’s, somehow, the center of this wine, a note like the sounding of a bell, high and clear.

He only realizes he’s closed his eyes when he opens them again, and meets the gaze of the man that’s been skulking around in the background — or, sort-of meets it, since the other man is wearing sunglasses indoors. But it’s obvious that he’s been watching Aziraphale taste the Chardonnay; it’s written on his face, an oddly emotional twist to his mouth. Aziraphale licks his lips, self-consciously, and the man startles and jerks away, ducking again out the door of the tasting room.

He turns to find Anathema watching him, as well. She smiles as if she knows exactly what he’s thinking. “And that’s why we call it the Magnificat.”

“Breathtaking, my dear.” Aziraphale’s voice is thready. He takes another sip. The harmony of the flavors together, the way the wine is sweet and rich and tart all at the same time: it’s absolutely lovely. He doesn’t even want to know how much a bottle costs; he’ll buy the entire case.

“And for you,” Anathema says suddenly, turning to Warlock, who has been idly playing on his mobile phone. “Honey and Psalms, one of our more popular and accessible Chardonnays. Nothing new, nothing unusual; we’re keeping to canon on this one. You’ll like it.”

Warlock watches as she pours and slides the glass over to him. He takes a sniff and then, bemused, takes a sip. “That’s good,” he says, sounding surprised, and Anathema gives him that mysterious half-smile again.

Aziraphale’s still tasting the chords of the Magnificat. “You said there’s a version of this—” He carefully taps the glass. “Aged in stainless?”

Anathema smiles as if he has unlocked one of the great secrets of the world. “I’ll get you a taste,” she says knowingly, and slips back into the hallway behind the tasting room.

———

Aziraphale is making appreciative notes in his book - and appreciative noises into his soup - when a second glass is set in front of him.

“You take notes,” someone says, the voice deep and wry and curious, with an accent Aziraphale finds somewhat familiar. “With a pen.”

“ _Thank_ you,” Warlock mutters beside them, glancing up and then back at his mobile.

Aziraphale looks up from his soup to take in the man that has brought him another glass of wine. He can’t help the way his breath catches — the sunglasses are a bit jarring, unexpected, no gaze to lock onto and therefore no way to keep his eyes from tracing out an angled jaw and sharp cheekbones, framed by a tumble of copper-red curls falling out of a sloppy bun. The surprise of that sunset-red hair falling in wild twists around the dark sunglasses and the lines of the man’s mouth has Aziraphale wondering for a moment whether he’s daydreamed up a drinking partner.

Something trips his heart like a bit of an electric shock, and as he stares the stranger’s particularly wry mouth starts to curl up into a smirk.

Aziraphale colors and quickly shakes his head to shed the fog from his brain. “Well, yes,” he says rather pointedly. “I find it much more natural to do so. No need to hunt and peck; it just flows right from my brain to the tip of the pen.”

What the _heavens_ is he _saying._ The smirk broadens, revealing a devastatingly attractive dimple, and Aziraphale feels the blush blooming on his face.

“He can’t type,” Warlock tells this handsome stranger, casually, and Aziraphale feels his cheeks heat up even more as the strange man rewards Warlock with a commiserating grin.

“I most certainly can type,” Aziraphale says, trying to be offended and mainly coming off as more amused than he expected.

Warlock laughs at this and sets his phone down. “With a whole two fingers.”

Aziraphale, allowing Warlock his joke, draws his shoulders up in a proud little wiggle. “Sometimes,” he announces, “I can also use my thumbs.”

The other man curves an eyebrow over the top of one of the dark lenses, and his mouth is twitching as if he wants to laugh but isn’t sure he’s going to allow it. “So,” he drawls, letting those lips curl up again. “What’s it say about us?”

Aziraphale tugs the notebook closer as if the strange gentleman is going to grab it from his hands, and the other man grins outright at that, as if he’s scored a point.

“Foodie?” The man leans in, his elbows on the bar, hands curled inward like blunt commas. He’s all straight lines and angles, really, except for that rich burnished-auburn hair, which seems to promise lazy ringlets and waves. “First trip? Oh, christ, you’re a blogger, aren’t you.”

“I — I do have a bit of a blog,” Aziraphale stammers, and Warlock puts his head down in his arms on the bar, shoulders shaking in laughter. “And I’m writing a book!”

“Well, let’s forget that unfortunate fact.” This strange man stretches somehow, arching his back without moving anything in his body save his spine; it’s as disconcerting as it is enthralling. “Anathema says you were in raptures over the Magnificat Oak.”

“Oh, yes,” Aziraphale begins, and then glances at the half-full glass the man has set on the bar between them. “Oh! Is that the...?”

“Magnificat Silver.” The man slides it over, long knobby fingers lingering and then dragging back against the surface of the bar. “Silver sounds better than stainless as a name, so yes, here you are.”

“Oh, I do say.” Aziraphale slides the glasses together, suddenly absolutely focused on the two. The Silver is paler, the clear yellow of a translucent flower petal, perhaps, all delicate like linen; the Oak rings out more confidently in a yellow-gold, really, a sunrise, or the center of a daisy. Aziraphale obediently takes a sip of his glass of water, trying to neutralize his mouth, and then leans in to smell the Silver.

 _Oh._ The notes of honey are gone; instead, he’s breathing in flowers, a bit of jasmine with that juicy peach scent beneath. Aziraphale smells again, breathing it in, and then takes a sip. It’s - it’s the strangest sensation - it’s the same wine but different in the way it blooms across his tongue. There’s the underlying peaches and melon, the crispness of the apple, but this brings in honeysuckle and rose and a tartness that reminds him of green apples specifically. It ends without the long notes of vanilla, but with a fresh bit of grapefruit that’s lingering across the back of his tongue.

Again, Aziraphale opens his eyes, not realizing he had closed them. Again, this stranger is staring at him _intensely;_ Aziraphale isn’t quite sure how he knows, with those sunglasses blocking the man’s eyes, but he can _feel_ it between them. Once the man realizes Aziraphale is watching back he frowns, big wrinkles across his brow.

“That’s amazing,” Aziraphale breathes, and the frown lifts away like fog dispelling from a valley.

Anathema has joined them during the decade it took Aziraphale to truly taste the Magnificat Silver, and she’s smiling that mysterious smile again. “Did you enjoy it, Mister Aziraphale?” She gets the pronunciation absolutely right; most folk don’t.

“Just Aziraphale,” he corrects her, his eyes still flicking between the two glasses. “And oh, yes. This is—” His finger moves, pointing to one, then the other. “Very compelling.”

“It’s like two completely different wines, isn’t it?” The stranger is leaning against the bar now, hip cocked out in an angular curve, hands tucked into pockets so small Aziraphale wonders why they’re even on those denims in the first place.

“Well, no!”

The stranger starts, obviously not expecting that. Anathema’s eyebrows rise, and even Warlock leans in, curious.

“I mean yes, sure, they’re incredibly different, you can see it in the color and the aroma without even tasting it, but...” Aziraphale struggles to find words in his excitement; he’s so much better when he has pen to paper. “Underneath, you can taste the _same_ wine in each glass. The crisp bite of apple, the peach, the melon. Honeysuckle.” Aziraphale takes a second to breathe in. “It’s incredible how much of the original flavors of the grape are the same, underneath all the, well, the differences from the aging.”

The strange man is speechless. Warlock’s got that look on his face he makes when he wishes he had been recording one of Aziraphale’s wine-related rants for the blog. A smile is slowly spreading across Anathema’s mouth, so broad she has to bite down on her lip to hide it.

“See, Crowley?” Anathema murmurs, obviously to the strange man beside her. “I told you he had an _aura_.” The statement makes absolutely no sense, so Aziraphale ignores it, gently spinning the glass of Magnificat Silver to watch the lees.

“You said you have a blog?” The man leans in, and Aziraphale wonders whether he’s been recognized in the moment. Oh, he really doesn’t want to talk about FTA right now. It’ll absolutely ruin this lovely mood.

“Oh, let’s forget that unfortunate fact,” Aziraphale shoots back, more defensive than he’d planned, and to his surprise the man bursts out in laughter, head falling back to reveal dire lines in a pale throat, messy bun shaking as he laughs from his belly.

“Right,” he says when he’s done, standing back up. “Welcome to _Ecdyses._ I’m the owner. Crowley.”

———

As the afternoon continues, Aziraphale is starting to notice a few things.

First: talking to the owner of the winery is vastly more interesting than talking to — well, wait, that’s a bit unfair. Both Anathema and Newt (who finally came to introduce himself) know a good amount about the wines, the vineyard, the service (and Newt makes cinnamon rolls! Aziraphale is buzzed, and pleased to hear it), but hearing it from Crowley is... something different entirely. It’s a good thing to discover, this early in their trip; he’s made a note in his notebook, hopefully when Crowley wasn’t looking, that says _perhaps ask for the owner elsewhere?_

The second thing he’s noticing is that a place like _Ecdyses_ isn’t a winery he’s going to be able to manage in one afternoon. In fact, they haven’t even left Chardonnay yet — Crowley’s brought out their other options, and they’ve been enthusiastically comparing them while Crowley rants about rainfall in one corner of his vineyard and Anathema gives Newt meaningful looks. Aziraphale’s going to have to take his time here, come back with more time and a little more space in his stomach to do due diligence to the reds. (He’s _hungry_ , and he _hates_ doing a tasting while eating; all of his food and wine pairings come about after he has sufficiently tasted both food and wine, extensively, in a controlled environment.) 

But there’s too much here: not just number of wines, but so much information being offered; he can barely write fast enough. _This is the kind of thing I’m here for,_ Aziraphale thinks. _This is what Gabriel wants me to learn!_ He’s maybe using a few more exclamation points than usual, but he’s on his something-th glass of white with nothing but soup in his belly and he can absolutely be excused for his excitement. Plus, people who live in glass exclamation-point-studded houses like Gabriel shouldn’t throw exclamation-point-shaped stones, he thinks, somewhat drunkenly.

(Oh, but he hopes no one here will make a big deal about his blog. So far no one’s mentioned it, but Crowley keeps bringing out bottles and pouring them; he _has_ to have an inkling.)

The third thing is a part of the first and the second things, and it’s the thing Aziraphale is trying desperately hard to _not_ notice: that these realizations are all centering around the eccentric, sleek, engaging Crowley, owner and gardener and viticulturist and winemaker and ... _and._

Crowley is also from London, he’s learned, and Crowley has been here for eleven years, and Crowley never liked white wine at all until he came out to California. Crowley’s first name is Anthony but nobody uses it. Crowley does all of the pruning himself. Crowley has never been to Los Angeles, and Crowley technically has thirteen acres but only ten currently produce grapes, and Crowley is ...quite brilliant, really. Crowley is _amazing._ He is an unending source of knowledge and jokes and his attention has been on Aziraphale for so long it’s almost burning, like sunlight through a magnifying glass. Aziraphale is _smitten stupid_ by it.

Crowley’s nothing like Aziraphale would have ever expected from a winery owner. He’s simultaneously vicious and charming, warm and cool, arrogant and yet somehow pleading for feedback. Half of his hair has fallen out of the sloppy bun at this point and he’s gesturing wildly about something with both hands, his glass forgotten on the counter while Aziraphale leans a cheek into his own palm and watches. Behind him, Warlock has vanished, taken into custody behind the bar by Anathema and Newt, on some sort of tour Aziraphale figures he’ll be glad Warlock got photos of later.

“And that’s why there’s so much _fucking_ Syrah!” Crowley crows, although even from behind the sunglasses Aziraphale can see Crowley’s gaze flicking towards his face and away, seeking that approval.

“I don’t think I have it in me to try your Syrah, dear boy.” Aziraphale leans back in his seat, the endearment slipping out automatically, and Crowley makes some garbled noise as he shifts all of his angles and corners into a similar but completely different configuration.

Aziraphale sighs and smiles at him. “Are all the winery owners here so...?”

That elegant eyebrow arches over the dark lenses again, and Crowley’s smirking as he says, “So... so _what?_ ”

“I mean, so,” and Aziraphale flutters a hand gesture from Crowley’s head down to his toes, shrugging. “So... so.”

“Do go on,” Crowley drawls, setting his glass against his lip. “So _what?_ ”

“Enthusiastic,” Aziraphale says finally, although maybe the word he really wanted was _intense._

“Ah.” Crowley chews on his lip, considers. “Ehh, I mean, ng. Not all that enthusiastic, me, really. I mean, it is what it is, right?” A series of sputtering noises like the starts of words follow this proclamation, and Aziraphale realizes delightedly that he might have embarrassed the poor man.

“Intense, then,” his mouth says without permission, and Crowley turns to look at him instantly, face somehow going compellingly open, and _wow_ Aziraphale needs to stop drinking. His chest gives that clenching feeling again, not entirely unpleasant, and for a few seconds Aziraphale can hear the sound of his pulse in his ears, pounding a bit fast.

“Here’s the thing,” Crowley says, setting his own glass down and leaning his elbows against the counter again. Aziraphale can’t help but track the lines of his forearms, the curls of his fingers. There’s a rawness in his voice, rich with something. “There are vineyard owners, and there are winery owners, and there are managers, and it’s all a bit...” His hands scramble upwards.

“Ineffable?” Aziraphale suggests.

Crowley’s head motion is so obviously an eye roll that Aziraphale doesn’t even need to see the man’s eyes to know it. “You’re insufferable,” Crowley says, but then he continues: “A winery owner’s just the guy that makes the decisions about making the wine. That’s it. They make the wine, they serve the wine, they sell the wine. But the _vineyard_ owner — now, that’s different.”

 _Heavens,_ Aziraphale must be a bit in his cups, because he’s overwhelmingly, fondly, intrigued. “Tell me how,” he insists.

Crowley splays his hands across the bar as if it’s a map. “The vineyard owner is the heart of a wine. That’s the person that makes all of the decisions about the terroir, the planting, the pruning. What to move, when to move it. That’s control of the heart. The nervous system.” Those restless hands flicker through the air again, too fast for Aziraphale to follow. “A winery owner can talk about the wines, their composition, maybe their flavors. The vineyard owner can walk you out to that square meter of ground and say: _here’s where those grapes grew, the ones that you tasted. Here’s where they took in the sun and the fog and the dew_ , you know _._ ”

Crowley suddenly looks embarrassed, and ducks his head to take a long drink of his wine; face shuttered, arms akimbo, and when he looks back at Aziraphale he’s entirely too composed, to the point where it’s so obviously a facade.

“And a manager, well, fuck, they don’t know anything about the grape or the wine, but they can tell you how much it cost.”

Aziraphale laughs, as he’s meant to, except that he’s also leaning in, his own elbows on the bar, hands clasped below his chin. “And you can,” he asks, remarkably enthralled. “You can taste that, in the wine?”

“Well, I, ahhhh,” Crowley says, and Aziraphale’s _incredibly_ charmed at the series of noises coming from his mouth now, a stammering garbled alphabet before he finishes, “well, yeah, I grow it, don’t I?”

It’s so honest and so blatantly obvious that Crowley means it. It’s incredibly endearing.

There’s a moment that floats between them where Aziraphale realizes that this is, perhaps, a bit _familiar_ — he’s a wine taster by profession, and he’s already going to be giving _Ecdyses_ such favorable ratings he’s almost — not embarrassed, but it suddenly feels a bit _intimate_ in the tasting room, seeing that he and Crowley are the only folks left here.

“Here,” Crowley says, and as Aziraphale watches Crowley _pulls back_ somehow, and there’s the posturing vineyard owner he’d been at the beginning, all black lines and sunglasses. Crowley’s wearing a jacket that has to be designer, black lined with a surprising dove-grey Aziraphale has noticed as Crowley has, repeatedly, shoved the sleeves up his arms and then tugged them down again. His denims - if that’s what you call them, that is; they’re terribly tight - are a dark grey with black patches, cut scandalously low. He looks effortlessly cool and surprisingly sharp and Aziraphale remembers that he’s wearing a sweatervest and has a momentary crisis of faith.

Crowley picks up the bottle of Chardonnay they’ve been working on and tops off Aziraphale’s glass, then his own. “Might as well,” he says, and even if the swagger has returned to his limbs, there’s a fondness in his voice Aziraphale enjoys hearing.

Aziraphale pulls back too, a weird ache in his heart, but he picks up his glass and says, with far too much warmth in it, “Cheers.”

Crowley tips his glass towards Aziraphale, and he watches as Crowley’s head tilts back, long elegant neck swallowing.

 _Okay, Aziraphale._ This is all getting quite out of hand. He needs to change the subject. “What on earth have your assistants done with mine?” He asks, a bit playfully, because surely they can talk about their co-workers without this... tension.

Crowley shrugs. “Not sure,” he says. “They better not be burying the body in my Zin, though.”

Aziraphale snorts. “You’re underestimating Warlock a bit,” he says, thinking of all of the ridiculous self-defense training Warlock’s had to endure because he refuses to be a part of his father’s carefully guarded menagerie.

Warlock, however luckily, takes that moment to burst forth from the kitchens and descend on Aziraphale in a cloud of excited twenty-somethings. Aziraphale straightens himself and blinks. There are four - five - _five?_ \- of them, and Warlock has a plastic bag with something heavy in it, but he’s holding a small plate with a cinnamon roll that he puts down in front of Aziraphale like it’s an offering.

“Oh, look,” Aziraphale declares, a bit too much excitement to his voice — but he’s _hungry_ , and it certainly smells delicious. “Crowley, so far your kitchen has been delightful.”

“Right.” Crowley’s voice sounds oddly strangled, and Aziraphale glances over at Warlock - who shrugs - and then back to Crowley, who now looks like all of his joints are grinding glass. “Ahhh, ehhhh, go ahead, Adam - ngh - ring them up, then,” and Crowley gives Aziraphale one last stare before breaking it off and fleeing through the door into the kitchen and back offices.

“Ha,” says a young man with golden-brown curls who’s grinning at Warlock like they have a secret. “Right. Cheer-i-o.”

The bill rings up to something almost insultingly low, but Aziraphale‘s too scatterbrained to take it in, and he lets Warlock soberly lead him back to the behemoth and then drive him back home.

———

Aziraphale runs himself a bath. It’s his favorite way to draw out an evening where he’s this particular level of inebriated: the heat and the water draw out the feeling, make it last longer, and as long as he’s drinking cool water as he stretches it out he’ll feel much better when he gets out of the bath and into his pyjamas. Luckily, Tracy has stocked the master suite with a number of salts, oils, bubble baths, soaps, and bath bombs; Aziraphale is, in fact, spoiled for choice.

The hot water seeps into his limbs, those remaining aches from their flight, and Aziraphale sighs. He hadn’t _meant_ to drink so much, back at _Ecdyses_ , but it had all been so _delicious._ A charming conversational partner, who knows all of the things Aziraphale _doesn’t_ about wines, _plus_ all of those intense flavors rolling around on his tongue? Exquisite.

Aziraphale stretches, ducks his head - this bathtub is _gratuitous_ \- and then settles up against the side. Yes, he has brought his cinnamon roll, and yes, that’s a glass of the Honey and Psalms — if he’s going for decadence, he’s certainly going to enjoy it. He delicately pulls the outer crust of the roll off, craning his neck to avoid getting any crumbs in the bath, and takes a bite. Delicious.

What an absolutely _delectable_ day. Sure, he hasn’t had a proper dinner, but it’s a big cinnamon roll and it isn’t like he’s going to be up late tonight. He’ll turn in once he’s out of this gratuitous bath. _Lord,_ this entire place is absurd. It has to have been built for visitors, because who on earth would live like this?

Aziraphale’s aware he has particularly fine tastes in many things, but that doesn’t really have to extend to a tub that could easily hold four.

And he _absolutely_ should not picture Crowley at the other end of the bath, gesturing with a bottle of white. That’s just _rude._

Although it had been the highlight of the day, really. Aziraphale’s quite glad he’ll have to take another trip to sample all of those reds. He wants to listen to Crowley tell him things about _those_ vines, how they grow, what weather can do to them. He wants to taste the Old Vine Zinfandel he saw on the blackboard. He wants to talk to Crowley again.

( _Don’t get too fond,_ Gabriel warns him in his head. _It influences the ratings. Do you want lawsuits? That’s how you get lawsuits!_ But Gabriel isn’t here right now, is he? And Crowley, well, Crowley _is.)_

Aziraphale tips his head backwards, resting it on the rim of the tub. If he has to admit it, he’s feeling a bit overwhelmed today: it isn’t just Crowley, or _Ecdyses,_ or an exquisite Chardonnay. Aziraphale came out here assuming that the experience would be - more or less - comparable to the way he’s managed his entire career up until now. Most of his reviews have been about restaurants, sure, pairing a food and a wine together, but that doesn’t mean he hasn’t come to know the catalogs of some of his favorite European producers: Chateau Margaux, Louis Latour, Petrus, Chateau Mont-Redon, and that’s just France alone. He can taste some new delicacy and his palate immediately recommends something directly from his extensive memory, all of the little footnotes and scrawls coming together to form a pattern. European wines are perfection, iteration after iteration producing streamlined, flawless flavors all falling exactly within their canon.

Out here, he is completely overwhelmed. California itself is wild: this variable land, hills and valleys and nooks and crannies, the historical composition of the soil ranging from ash to sandstone to clay sometimes within the same acre. The wines echo this, too, far more bold and sharp than Aziraphale is used to. This land is a roiling, moving experiment, and the flavors shout loud in his face, so unlike the established, pinpoint predictability of the wines he’s developed his career tasting. Here, Aziraphale feels like the same exact bottle might taste differently if one drank it in the afternoon versus at midnight. It’s so fluid; so many variations on a Chardonnay.

It isn’t a matter of better or worse, obviously; Aziraphale likes the established, dominating flavors in his Chateau Neuf de Pap. It’s the rawness of it all, the way it seems the winemakers present these flavors like hearts on a sleeve; it’s the way his mouth knows he’s tasting vanilla and pepper while his heart is saying, _this is a new thing. We have not been here before._

It thrills Aziraphale, but it’s also making him unduly anxious. It’s the spectre of his unwritten book, his promised blog posts, all of the words he’ll have to make for Gabriel to poke and prod and scrutinize until they come out completely unlike anything he wants to say, _needs_ to say, the things he—

Oh, for _heaven’s_ sake. This is his livelihood. He can absolutely make this happen. He deserves it, Warlock deserves it, and - if the rest of his days are going to be even nearly as enjoyable as today was - FTA deserves it in a way, too.

With that, Aziraphale turns again to pick off another piece of the cinnamon roll and resolves to finally relax. This has been a truly _decadent_ day. There’s absolutely, positively no reason to panic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so i want to preface this by saying i am definitely NOT an artist. i sketch and i doodle only. but i sketched out Crowley's outfits in chapters 2 and 3 for myself, and as long as you remember the caveat that I don't actually go here, you can check it out ([tumblr](https://sevdrag.tumblr.com/post/616105802331226112/i-am-not-an-artist%C3%A9-but-ive-produced-some) || [insta](https://www.instagram.com/p/B_ST7MkJwxq/?utm_source=ig_web_copy_link)) i'll probably keep sketching from this fic for my own reference lskdjglkdfh why cant i art tho
> 
> i am desperately seeking comments for this chapter and/or you can [come yell at me on tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/sevdrag)


	4. Budbreak

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley reaches out, trembling chilly fingers tracing one green nub. It’s barely the size of his fingernail, but it means that yet again, _Ecdyses_ is coming alive.
> 
> (Spring officially begins.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am... absolutely overwhelmed, without words, at all of the lovely comments and responses to this story. I treasure every single one of them. You are all the best readers in the world, and I'm so very glad that other people are enjoying this story with me. Thank you thank you!
> 
>  _Budburst_ is one of the ...key? chapters in this work. The first "key" chapter, I guess. A lot of things had to be anchored in this chapter to set up one of the main themes. It's incredibly long and Crowley emotes a lot and I really hope you enjoy it.

Crowley’s right: a few days later he walks into the Chardonnay fields and the vines are, finally, bursting: _budbreak._ He stands there for a long moment, taking it in. His bare feet are cold, covered in cool dew the fog left behind; his hands are buried in the pockets of his gigantic hoodie, against the chill.

The dead wood of the vines, brown and hard, flaking in layers, has started to break open at its nubs and angles; the buds are small, tiny leaves curled around each other, so thin they look as if they’re coated in ice. Edged with slight traces of red, these little green protrusions are just emerging. Crowley knows within days they’ll be opening, unfurling those first tiny, delicate leaves, as if breathing a sigh over the vineyard.

Something in Crowley sighs as well. He’s been doing this for eleven years, since his own personal apocalypse, and still every spring it’s like he’s holding his breath until budburst. Every winter, he wonders what he’s fucked up this time; every March he gets antsy, anxious, some part of his convinced that his vines will never bloom again, that he’s ruined it all pretending to know what he’s doing, that the firm’s gonna take the place after all and he’ll have to go back to—

No. Crowley reaches out, trembling chilly fingers tracing one green nub. It’s barely the size of his fingernail, but it means that yet again, _Ecdyses_ is coming alive.

———

Anathema and Newt show up together, a little after eight, and Anathema gasps when she sees the glasses set out next to the champagne and the orange juice. “Is it really?”

Crowley nods, smirking at Anathema; Newt looks between the two of them and then over at the champagne, shrugs, and starts pouring. Sure, it’s gauche to use someone else’s champagne to celebrate, but Crowley’s never given a fuck. Plus, this isn’t the _real_ budburst, the one that really _matters._

(That’s the old Zinfandel vines, tucked into the best piece of terroir in the vineyard, vines documented to be at least thirty years old — that’s the day they open their own bottles and _really_ celebrate. Those old vines are the heart of Crowley’s space, and he’s worked _hard_ over these eleven years to bring them back to bear and bloom. They’re — they’re important.)

And Anathema knows. Crowley hasn’t yet taken her out into the old vines; sure, she may have wandered there herself, but he hasn’t taken the time to show her what lives out there: the scars from where he’s pruned before, the lines he resettles along different wires, the marks of his eleven years with these tender, tentative living creatures. Anathema knows that the first budburst is never the one that’s the _key._

But first budburst is still worth celebrating. He and Newt and Anathema drink their mimosas and eat the cinnamon rolls. Anathema ducks out to take a picture for the _Ecdyses_ Instagram, comes back smiling so broad Crowley knows she must have done one of her witchy blessings out there; whatever. He doesn’t mind her silly hobby.

It’s a quiet day, for being so significant. Only a few customers roll through, all of them amateur tasters - that’s fine, they’re customers too - which means no reason for Crowley to leave his office behind the tasting room. Nothing like that gentleman the other night, the one that had surprised Crowley so with his depth of knowledge, the ability to pull hints of flavors Crowley hadn’t tasted before. _That_ had been a good conversation. Crowley wonders whether he’ll come back to taste the reds. He kind of hopes so, which seems a bit silly, but it is what it is. He really, honestly, doesn’t want to consider _why_ right now.

The Them come and go around him. Once Wensleydale arrives, Crowley corners him in his office to go over their financials; he’s got a meeting with Bee tomorrow he needs to be ready for. They’re skimming along, not really making money but not losing much either. It’s been like that every winter since 2012 — situation normal. Brian stops in, drops a sandwich on the desk, leaves; Wensleydale eats half of it, and then the rest of the other half that Crowley doesn’t eat.

Crowley stops in Pepper’s office next, throwing himself into the chair across from her desk with a groan.

“What’s up your arse?” God, he loves Pepper. “It’s budbreak day, isn’t it?”

“It isssss,” Crowley hisses, “but not the big one, and I need you to go over the sales projections cause I have to go bow to Beelzebub tomorrow.”

“God, you’re horrid,” Pepper tells him. “Stop using that nickname.”

“They like it,” Crowley reminds her. Beatrice Bubston - called Bee their entire life, a name they made official when they settled on their pronouns - thinks it’s hilarious. Trying to say _Bee Bubston_ while drinking had led to _Beezer-bub_ tumbling out of Crowley’s mouth, which had then just evolved as expected. They’d (un)officially adopted it as a nickname only Crowley was allowed to use.

“The winter has been warm,” Pepper tells him. “We may be able to take the positive projection, if the spring stays above freezing.”

Crowley hates spring for — for a lot of reasons. He loves spring, of course: budbreak, the joy of watching the green shoots unfold, the feeling of life coming back to his vines and his garden. But spring is also a season for unknowns. It’s a season for making big decisions based on hopes, dreams, and leaves so thin they’re transparent. Owners and vintners and viticulturalists are all watching the buds, wondering at the weather, suckering and pruning based on their most wild guesses as to what’s to follow. It’s a _nightmare._

Every financial advisor in the area is scrambling to get on top of what’s going to come out of this year, demanding estimates for grape yield when the buds are still tiny. There’s absolutely no fucking _way_ he’d at all be able to tell what the harvest is going to look like at this point, and yet he’s gotta deliver something or his investors are going to start yelling. Winter at a vineyard is the long dormant season of crossing his goddamned fingers and hoping he hasn’t fucked anything up; spring is the season when Crowley has to face down all of last year’s decisions one at a time, and if something’s fucked, he has to fix it.

Spring, Crowley has decided, is just for rampaging, uncontrollable anxiety.

“Nobody knows if it’ll stay above freezing,” he tells Pepper, because it’s true.

She shakes her head, dreads swinging over her shoulders. “Crowley, we’ve been here for a while, you’re going to have to trust this at some point.”

Crowley just gives her a long look. The Them are, in fact, experts in this exact field. They’ve been managing Crowley’s expenses for years; they know about his loans and his debts (although only Adam really knows the pressure Crowley’s under). He himself has been doing this for well over a decade.

He, himself, trusts _nothing._

“Look,” Pepper tells him, gently. “I’ll have the sales and marketing report by the end of the day. Wensley will have your balance sheet. Adam will have a plan. You’ll explain it to Bee, and everything will be fine.”

Crowley realizes he’s shaking his knee, over and over, and makes himself stop and sprawl backwards into the chair as if he isn’t worried. Look successful to be successful, and all that.

It doesn’t fool Pepper, who simply narrows her eyes at him. Very little fools Pepper, honestly. Crowley hates it, but it also makes him feel relieved, somehow.

———

See, budbreak is different every year. Yes, sure, of course it’s the same every year: the same old cycle grape vines have been growing through for millennia; same thing that happens every spring. The buds emerge, the leaves come out, the grapes grow and grow and veraison, the grapes drop and the vines go dormant to do it all over again next year. So yes, sure, that part’s the goddamn same every spring.

But budburst is different every year. Each one is a new variation on what came before. And while Crowley knows the vines will eventually break every spring, every year is different. Winter too warm? Too cold? Judith may go too far into musk, and Honey and Psalms may be too sweet, and those old vines may only put out half the useful grapes they did last year.

Every budburst is different, even though they’re all the same process underneath. Everything here is the same process every year. The only variable is, well, the air and the fog and the soil and the sunlight and the rain — so, yeah, the entire _world._

People on the outside, even Anathema, don’t _get_ it. They look at the budbreak and think, another year of making wine. Crowley looks at it and wonders who will be emerging from those tiny buds five months from now. He wonders what the last twelve months have created, what magic’s being worked deep within the core of those dead-looking tendrils. He wonders what he’ll find when the skins are shed.

The same isn’t always the _same,_ not here, not the things that grow in this earth.

———

God, Crowley forgets how much meeting with Bee is like chewing on goddamn glass.

Bee is — a friend, but also not a friend. It’s complicated. Crowley met Bee when he’d come out to see the place, actually see it; the week he’d decided to accept Her gift and start everything over. Bee had been recommended by Her, in the paperwork, and initially Bee had been everything a young inexperienced dumb fuck like Crowley would want in an investor.

But while Bee was - well, as friendly as they came; they were nearly as curmudgeonly as Crowley - Bee also worked for a company, and that company had Goals for their Loans. And Bee was the messenger. Usually.

Today Crowley’s sitting down across from Bee and their usual partner in crimes, Dagon. Dagon’s the ruthless one, playing worse cop to Bee’s bad cop. Crowley already fucking hates meeting with Bee; he hates when Bee and Dagon double team him even worse. Fuck this day already.

But they _are_ his financial advisors, when it comes to his loans. And so he’s here.

“Anthony.” Dagon’s smile always seems to have too many teeth; Crowley imagines her as one of those creatures that lives in the fucking Mariana Trench that seems to have ten million sharp needled teeth it doesn’t need. “Good to see you.”

Crowley gives a little half-bow from his seat, complete with extravagant hand gestures. Bee snorts; Dagon’s face freezes its terrible smile, and Crowley feels like she may want to roll her eyes but isn’t. She shouldn’t restrain herself for _his_ sake; Satan only knows, Crowley’s certainly rolling his eyes behind his sunglasses every three seconds.

“So I’ve had The Them send over all of our current paperwork.” Crowley stretches and sprawls; there’s absolutely no fucking way he’s going to let either of them detect the spinning ball of anxiety deep in his belly. “And it’s business as usual, so maybe we can just shake hands and end this early?”

Bee smiles. It isn’t a nice smile. “You know what we’re here to talk about, Crowley.”

Dagon opens a manila folder and pages through with her fingertip until she finds the one she wants, pulling it out to slide over the desk to Crowley. Her fingernails are done up as sharp as her teeth seem, in a pale blue that make Crowley feel vaguely seasick. “We make this offer every year, and one of these years you’re going to be smart enough to take it.”

Crowley glances at it from behind his sunglasses, but he already knows what it is. His loans run through H.E.L. Investments (the name is, yes, terrible; Bee has told him that the owner who started it in the first place found it hilarious, but now that it’s an established firm it’s just middling-level embarrassing) rather than a bank, because banks rarely loan money to a failed fuckup who just moved from London to wine country with big dreams and no skills. H.E.L. specializes in vineyard investments, which is great, except that what they really want is vineyard _ownership._

In 2008 - Crowley’s first loan, desperate and destructed, trying to be too cool to show it - there had been no mention of it, Bee acting more as a curmudgeonly financial advisor with bold opinions and anger management problems. But some time between 2010 and 2011, some of the valley’s roughest years, the tune had slowly changed, and Crowley hadn’t necessarily realized it until he was three loans in and already addicted to the feel of the soil between his toes. Since then, H.E.L. has been slowly trying to turn their lending into a partnership, buying shares in _Ecdyses._

Crowley will not. He will never.

“You make this offer every year,” Crowley tells Dagon now, leaning back in his chair. “And one of these years you’ll be smart enough to save your time.”

“Terms are even better than last year, Anthony.” Dagon takes one perfectly manicured fingertip and twitches the paper. “Interest rates are down; it’s really in your favor this year. You want to take a look.”

Fuck, he hates when she uses his first name: memories of being called up to the front of the class, the front of the boardroom, scolded by his mother, a client calling after him—

“I’m not doing shares,” he tells them, crossing his arms. “I’m not selling a single piece of it. I’m paying off these loans, and then I’m done, see.”

Dagon gives him the kind of condescending look he’s seen his entire life and always want to punch. “Pay off these loans and be done,” she repeats, as if what he just said is so simple it’s cute. “Crowley, you’ll never _grow._ Look, we know this industry. We can help you. To really build up a winery, you need to reinvest capital. Keep things growing. You pay off these loans, and you’re done? You’ll _stagnate._ ”

Crowley spits a set of offended consonants, and then settles for saying, “Better than sharing,” although he knows he seems childish.

“Crowley,” says Bee, and they don’t often speak up in these meetings. Crowley decides to pay attention. “Take a look.”

“Yeah, not now.” He throws an arm over the back of the chair and jerks his chin at the paper. “I’ll take it with me. Homework.”

Dagon’s hands come together, fingers steepled. “I’m not sure you understand the opportunity you’re passing up here, Anthony. We’re offering a credit line that’s enough to _double_ your plantable acreage by 2022, all planted with your own vines, and you’d still be majority share owner.” Her eyes are on his glasses, and Crowley’s extra grateful that he wears them, because he’s fairly sure anyone would be able to see how angry he is.

“It isn’t ownership,” adds Dagon, “it’s _growth._ ”

“Just tell us you’ll think about it,” Bee says, a threat and an out at the same time.

Sure. He’ll think about it. Over a bottle of Apocalypse Reserve 2012, alone, in his bedroom. Think about how much he hates it. “Sure, I’ll think about it.”

Dagon delicately picks up the paper and slides it back into the folder, placing the whole folder in front of Crowley. “Our details,” she says, with another toothy smile.

Crowley raises an eyebrow over his sunglasses and resists the childish urge to throw the entire folder across the desk. “Anything else?”

———

The thing is—

The _thing_ is...

The thing is. Crowley’s life had hit rock bottom, back in London, a series of terrible choices coming back to kick him in the face. He’d been jobless and desperate, at the end of a terribly worn-through rope, and then She’d dropped this winery into his lap like a sign from the fucking Almighty (who Crowley really doesn’t believe in, all things considered). And Crowley had made a _choice._

This had been _his_ decision, _his_ doing. His work that had taken the place from it’s casually-tended but somewhat-abandoned state back to a functioning vineyard. His sweat and tears and occasional blood training those grapes, pruning the vines and praying. This place was _his._

Sure, the money wasn’t his. It had taken investment-level money, the kind Crowley didn’t have. But lending money is easy. It was _his_ hands with dirt under the fingernails, his fists full of fertilizer and vitamins, his feet walking row after row after row, laying eyes and fingers on nearly every single grape.

And he was never, never, ever selling any ownership shares to it. Even one would be one too many.

The thing is: Crowley needs this place to function. Without it, he’d just be the mess he’d left behind in London, eleven years ago. He’s _tired_ of other people having a say in what he does. He’s been tired of it for _decades._

 _Growth,_ he thinks, a snarl on his face as he looks out at the vineyard. _They don’t know **shit** about growing things._

———

So Crowley’s in a right mood when he throws open the door to the tasting room, and when he sees Newt perched on the bar with Anathema behind him and the lovely tasting gentleman from the other day sipping at a glass of red —

—the rage rises up in him, weirdly possessive, because that particular guest - _Aziraphale_ \- should be his, his to talk to about his wines and his earth, his to listen to that stupidly posh accent describing the flavors in _his_ wine, from his ground. His earth.

Fuck. Crowley shouldn’t even be at work. When he feels like this, he usually tries to hide from humanity. For a moment, he deliberates, considering turning around and opening that bottle of Apocalypse Reserve 2012 in his home, and just ending this day as it needs to be ended. What is this? _Jealousy?_ Jealousy is a fucking stupid emotion for fucking stupid people. This man has been here a grand total of one (1) time.

But he’s _back,_ with _that_ expression on his face - the one that caught Crowley staring, blatantly, at the man’s first taste of the Magnificat - and then Aziraphale opens his eyes, his gaze landing directly on Crowley.

The effect is instant. His entire face lights up, and he says, “Crowley!” Like Crowley’s brought him the holy grail of wine. Like Crowley’s anything worth seeing. Like he remembers Crowley like Crowley remembers him.

He’s goddamn _beautiful._ It’s _awful._ He has the face of an angel and the hair of a child’s doll, a halo of pale blond curls framing brilliant eyes and a soft smile. Crowley’s never seen a man as lovely. He’s built like padded silk around a steel frame, delightfully solid; there’s something in Crowley that wants to just set his teeth and sink in.

He’s wearing a fucking _bow tie._ Crowley _cannot_ be attracted to him. It’s ridiculous.

“Aziraphale,” he says carefully, hoping he’s remembered the pronunciation correctly, and Aziraphale’s smile _melts_ into something Crowley has no word for other than adorable.

“I’ve just started,” Aziraphale tells him, somehow _wiggling_ happily on his seat at the bar. “Anathema’s just poured me the, um. Ruth?”

Anathema’s looking at Crowley. Crowley stands his ground, stares back, refuses to give her any ground. It’s still like she can look through him, though. Anathema claims she can see auras, and Crowley knows that kind of thing is fake, except for when Anathema gives him these kinds of looks as if she’s looking directly into the back of his skull.

“We’ll take a glass, Anathema,” Crowley says, and yanks one of the stools up to the back of the bar, almost directly across from Aziraphale.

“Where’s your, uh,” he says, gesturing at the empty stools around Aziraphale; last time, he had a friend. A kid. Something. Crowley’s discombobulated and floating. He needs wine: needs to taste his own earth and grapes and time in his mouth.

“Oh, Warlock vanished back there with Adam fifteen minutes ago.” Aziraphale beams at him, really beams, as if Crowley remembering and asking is some unusual point of kindness. “It turns out, once all of your delightful employees found out he was stuck with some old man for the next six months, Adam and the other one all but stole him away from me!” He laughs. His laugh is sunlight on a vine; the burst of a green bud unfurling.

“Adam’s good stuff,” Crowley tells him, as Anathema sets a full glass in front of him. “They all are.”

He brings the glass up to his face and inhales. No, he can’t pull out a hint of raspberry or the scent of roses, but one single breath and he knows exactly who this is. Ruth. An acre and a half of Pinot Noir grapes, low yield, meaning the flavors in each grape are more intense, more enhanced. He can see her in his mind, most of the acreage tucked into the swell of a little hill, towards the east. He can’t name things like Aziraphale, but he can name the wine, and he always does. Ruth: its true-name, the first of his Pinot offerings and the most approachable. Crowley can picture the vines she came from, the earth that fed her.

He takes a very long, very deep drink, and then slides the half-empty glass back over towards Anathema, who merely quirks an eyebrow and tops it back up.

Crowley breathes in; breathes out. Yes, this is better. His fingertips are on the wood of his bar and his arse is on a seat touching his own ground. His wine is in his mouth. And this intriguing stranger has returned, come to taste more of what he makes with his hands and feet and soul.

“So?” Crowley gestures his glass towards Aziraphale. Of course, the man has that ridiculous notebook out next to him, pen resting in the middle of a page.

“Ruth is marvelous,” Aziraphale gushes, “and — _kind._ Which is probably a daft thing to say, I know, because that’s her entire identity in the Bible, and I’m probably making ridiculous connections where there are none, but.” He wiggles again, straightening his shoulders and adjusting the bowtie he’s wearing today; Crowley could weep.

“Pinot can be unapproachable so often,” Aziraphale continues, leaning forward. There’s this look on his face that’s fascinating, somehow; he’s alight with his own explanation, excited to share these things only his own mouth can taste. “From what I understand the grapes are _so_ disagreeable.” Aziraphale offers this as if he’s chastising a room of somewhat recalcitrant kindergarteners and Crowley is done. It’s too much. There’s no way this man actually exists.

“They certainly can be,” Anathema says.

Crowley’s brought back into reality. He’d forgotten Anathema and Newt are here, tucked up with Aziraphale’s charming light already. Fuck. Is there a way he can send them off to do - something - without revealing this tense, gaping need that’s growing in him? This thing set off by his fucking financial come-to-jesus that he usually quenches by wading out far, far into the fucking Petite Sirah and yelling at the vines to grow better (he hasn’t been happy with the Petite Sirah in three years, although it sells fine) — it’s now somehow attached itself to this guest, the way Aziraphale casually sheds a light Crowley kind of thinks he really, really needs today.

Is this good and healthy and fair? Probably not. Does Crowley give a damn? _Absolutely_ not.

He turns his attention back to Aziraphale, who has picked up his glass and inhaled again, eyes closed. Aziraphale smiles, and then looks directly at Crowley. _“God made Cabernet Sauvignon, whereas the devil made Pinot Noir.”_

Crowley snorts, amused and pleased. “You’re not wrong.”

“It’s Tchelistcheff, dear,” Aziraphale says idly, and Crowley again chokes at the casual, idle endearment. _Fuck,_ he’s messed up today. “But from the little I know, it’s accurate, yes?”

“Oh, yes,” Anathema starts, and Crowley is weak, he cannot _help_ the look he throws over to her. She’s leaning into Newt’s side; Newt’s still perched up on the tasting bar, and they both have a glass of what looks like Ruth, and the smile on Anathema’s face is like she’s mentally curled up and eating popcorn as she watches this show. Crowley frowns, and the smile just grows more enigmatic. He hates when it feels like Anathema knows something he doesn’t.

“Everything depends on the ground,” Crowley finds himself saying. “Easy and difficult is a factor of the circumstances, always. But in general...” He takes another long sip; looks at Aziraphale. “In general, yeah, Satan absolutely created Pinot Noir.”

Aziraphale looks amused. “I’ve tasted a good number of Pinots in my time,” he tells them, as if he’s imparting some kind of secret. “And they aren’t all, well, good. It’s very easy for the balance to go off, or for the flavor to be too thin, but...” He lifts his glass, and then takes a sip. “This here, this is a _friendly_ Pinot Noir. Incredibly approachable. Doesn’t do anything out of the realm of an ordinary Pinot Noir — but that’s so often where they go _bad,_ isn’t it?”

“Do you want to know why Pinot Noir is _Satanic_ to grow?” It’s a bit of an interruption, but Crowley needs to tell this man: needs to explain; needs to ground himself in his own knowledge. “Because it is, it really is.”

Aziraphale’s face does that switch-on thing again, lighting up from the inside. Christ. Crowley’s feeling something warm down in his gut and no, usually this isn’t a good idea at all, but today he quickly latches onto it because it’s better than the spring anxiety or the financial shiftiness. He knows Anathema and Newt are watching him as if he’s a show on the telly, but at this point he doesn’t care: they can watch, but they need to get out of the _way._

“Oh, do tell!” Aziraphale gives that happy wiggle and takes another sniff and sip. “Please.”

“The grapes are a little bit smaller, but most importantly, they pack in on each other like — like whatever it is you smash all together in a tin. When you pack ‘em all in there, so tight, it makes it much more complicated.”

“Oh,” says Aziraphale, looking transfixed — even as his hand flies across the paper of his notebook, some scribbly shorthand Crowley can’t read upside-down. “Yes, I guess it would make the sunlight uneven, wouldn’t it?”

“You,” Crowley says, pointing a finger, and Aziraphale’s blush is absolutely adorable. “You get it. Not only that, but the wind can’t get through, moisture sticks so you have to worry about rot and fungus, blah blah blah. Vines get sicker than other grapes. It’s horrible.”

“Oh, my,” Aziraphale says, without a hint of sarcasm or irony, and something in Crowley’s chest gives a little wrench.

“Plus.” Crowley leans across the bar, because he wants to catch all of Aziraphale’s attention with this. He notices that Newt and Anathema have apparently faded into the background, but oh, Crowley needs to connect with this man and his own wine. “With a Pinot Noir grape, the skin is _much_ thinner than most other varietals. Pain in the arse. You know how bad that can be?”

“I dare say I don’t,” Aziraphale breathes. Crowley has to pause. In this moment Aziraphale’s face is the epitome of interest: eyes wide, sparkling with curiosity, his mouth friendly and just a bit open. And a wave of _interest_ hits Crowley low in the _gut,_ almost bowling him over right there on the floor.

 _Shit._ Aziraphale’s not the kind of man that catches the eye on first glance — unless you’re Crowley, apparently, because he’s absolutely hung up on that face: all of these tiny expressions, the noise he makes when something delicious hits his palate, and Crowley’s suddenly realizing that Aziraphale’s fucking _beautiful_ like this, relaxed and smiling back at him like Crowley’s just lit a candle. The man’s already lovely in his natural environment, but when Aziraphale starts sparkling like this, his entire focus on Crowley, it’s like something deep down in Crowley’s spine starts coughing with the desire to sweep him away for, hells, crepes and a weekend trip to Paris or something stupid like that.

Crowley coughs for real, then, and takes a long sip of his wine. Nope. This is just a messed up day; this is a road he’s learnt not to walk down. _Calm down, you imbecile._ It’s just flattering to be shown this kind of interest, really. That must be it.

“Thin skin,” Crowley repeats, after a silence that probably went a _beat_ too long. “Too sensitive.” He’s hissing again, that tendency he gets when he’s being dramatic; whatever. This seems to be a dramatic moment. “Too much sunlight, the skin shrinks up and burns. Ruins the juices, and ruins the skins. The tannins suck. Just ...nothing good.”

“Oh, dear.” Aziraphale literally sounds like he’s concerned, and Crowley wants to slam his face down on the bar as a response to the emotion that’s showing up in his tightened chest.

“But thin skin in the cold fucks you over too,” Crowley adds. He’s leaning into this now; he can’t help himself. He’s never been able to help himself. “You get rain or hail that’s too strong? Your grapes burst. Wet produces mildew. Punches right through to the inner juice.” He straightens, aligning all of his angles, only to pour the rest of his glass down his throat. “It’s a hell of a grape.”

Aziraphale’s taking notes as he flicks these glances up at Crowley, through thick blond eyelashes - what the _fuck_ \- looking entirely enthralled. “That’s frightfully interesting,” he tells Crowley as he dashes off a couple final sentences. “Honestly, it might make — it might make sense, in my experience.”

Crowley can’t help it. Aziraphale’s bright as a lamp, and he has to lean in. “Do tell,” he says, echoing the other man’s words.

“Dear boy,” Aziraphale says with a chuckle, “I’m assuming you know most of it, as the viticulturist of this place.”

Crowley doesn’t, he really doesn’t, but he finds he doesn’t want to say no either; he feels like Aziraphale might find him less interesting if he learns that Crowley’s a winemaker who can’t exactly tell hints of raspberry from blackberry. But he can take Aziraphale out to look at the terroir, the vines, the blossoms, right? Right. Like some idiot amateur wine blogger wants to go outside and taste dirt. Sure.

Instead, Crowley holds up a finger. It turns out he has a couple bottles of Ruth left over from 2013 (Aziraphale is drinking the 2015, the current offering). He’s real hesitant to sell them even as reserves, but he thinks that maybe Aziraphale will enjoy it more than most of the other tasters he has in this place. He nicks Newt’s shoulder, tells him to go grab a bottle, and brings out two other glasses.

 _Ecdyses_ is still empty. Bad business days should concern him, right? Whatever. Crowley tops off their glasses of Ruth 2015, and when Newt brings up the Ruth 2013 he gives Crowley this desperately confused look that seems to say _will you fire me for letting you open this?_ Crowley waves him off to the back rooms, where he assumes all of his other employees have vanished, and opens the bottle himself.

“Here,” he tells Aziraphale as he pours. “Let’s play a game, right? This is 2013 against 2015. Same vines, same land, same wining process. Tell me what you think.”

And _hell_ but Aziraphale absolutely lights up, again, this one a different light than before: this one is focused specifically on Crowley, a spotlight trained, and an appreciation that’s so fond Crowley wants to bask in it like he himself is a grape ripening on the vine.

“Gracious, thank you,” Aziraphale murmurs as Crowley slides the first glass over. Aziraphale simply glances between them for a while; they seem the same color to Crowley, but his vision’s never been anything to write home about, anyway. “I realize that you can’t quite compare two additional years of bottle aging, right, but ...I find myself entirely intrigued by your challenge.”

He does that _shimmy_ Crowley’s seen before, settling his shoulders back and spine straight like some schoolteacher’s about to come and check him, and then lifts the glass of 2013 to smell.

“Oh,” says Aziraphale, and Crowley’s bowled over by just the intensity in his voice — nothing else. _“Oh.”_ It’s the kind of noise a man might make while being _kissed,_ Crowley thinks, and here’s Aziraphale, breathing it out over the surface of his Pinot.

“The 2015 is so incredibly fruit-forward - raspberries, at the front, with something darker like plum at the end of it - which is delicious, mind you, but — this?” Aziraphale inhales again. He hasn’t even taken a sip. Crowley might die when he does. “You can tell that everything has _aged,_ but more than that — 2013 was a good year for you, wasn’t it?” The last is a murmur as Aziraphale tips the glass from side to side, and Crowley can’t tell whether he’s talking to the wine or the owner.

“Yes. More body, a bit more richness. Everything’s fuller: a berry pie, this time, balanced with — it’s gone woodsy, hasn’t it?” Aziraphale opens his eyes, twinkling, and Crowley feels dazes by it. “I’ll have to try it to be sure.”

Crowley watches, then. It’s torture. Aziraphale sets those pink lips at the edge of the glass, and tilts his head back. The first sip must be so, so small; his eyes flutter closed. Crowley watches as he pauses, simply holding the taste in his mouth, and then watches that strong neck flex as he swallows. Another sip follows, a longer draught, and Aziraphale sets the glass down. His eyes are still closed.

“It is. Cedarwood, I think, and it isn’t smoke — it’s toast, maybe. A hint of that richness, all browned up in the bottle.”

The words don’t mean much to Crowley but Aziraphale’s face when his eyes open is just — the man must be absolutely mad over wine. Crowley’s never seen someone’s cheeks pink up like this, someone’s smile go this broad and pleased. “My dear boy,” Aziraphale says - again, the endearments seem to not even register with him, and Crowley wonders how many he could gather up in his arms and stash away - “This is absolutely incredible.”

“Yeah,” Crowley chokes out, and then immediately takes a long sip of his own Ruth to help his suddenly dry throat. “That’s why she’s an eighty-five dollar bottle.”

“Oh!” Aziraphale looks shocked. “And you’ve just...?”

Crowley’s grin is probably a bit feral. He’s _trying._ He isn’t sure how to handle being confronted with an honest to god wine angel. Thank _fuck_ Anathema and Newt have finally pissed off to the back rooms. “I’m the owner, I can open whatever I want,” he tells Aziraphale.

“Well, I — _thank_ you.” Aziraphale inhales the aroma. “Anyway, the difference in good tannins between the 2013 and the 2015 is just incredible. The 2015 is a refreshing Pinot — friendly, fruity, jammy. This 2013, oh, that’s a complex thing indeed.”

“It is,” Crowley says, and there’s a strange yearning in his chest. Maybe this is what he needs: someone to sit and taste his work like it’s divine nectar from the gods, someone who can spell out flavors and names and thoughts to help when he gets tongue-twisted over tastings. Crowley tastes - location, soil, sun, rain, fog - in his wines; he’s too rooted in the process of it, buried up to his ankles in this place. Maybe he needs someone who tastes from the top down rather than the bottom up.

He realizes, suddenly, that his mood has entirely turned about. Most of the tension in his stomach and his spine has faded away, and when he smiles, his face feels like it means the gesture. That hopeless rage, the dark anger that occasionally eats him up from inside, that Bee and Dagon had triggered? It’s all melting, puddling on the floor, and Crowley’s filling up with the sunshine of a smile instead.

“Would you like some more?” Crowley asks through the smile, and this time Aziraphale’s wiggle looks entirely hedonistic as he nods.

———

Crowley and his spring-related anxiety spend the next few days buried out in the vineyard — acres away from the buildings, hollering insults into the Old Vine Zinfandel and the fucking Petite Sirah he hopes, beyond measure, will actually _impress_ him this year.

This really is how he spends most springs, but this one’s worse than most; they do increase in anxiety, year after year, but Crowley has managed not to tell anyone this. It’s like he’s just falling and falling and falling, year after year, climbing up during harvest season by the skin of his own knuckles and the grace of the land She left him. The thing is — the higher he climbs, every autumn when harvest comes in and he opens up another year’s bottles for sale, well...

Every spring is like this. The better he’s doing, the bigger the fall he could take, and a part of him _knows_ that down in the marrow of his bones like the same way he knows his own name. No matter how good the autumn is, _any_ spring can ruin him.

“You had better _show up!”_ Crowley’s yelling at the Old Vine Zin when his own brain catches up to him; “I need to _show_ you to _him_ before he leaves, so you need to _grow better!”_

His voice chokes in his throat.

He hasn’t _meant_ to think so much about Aziraphale. He _hasn’t_ been.

Crowley’s pretty sure it’s kinda rude to be like, _soooo, hey, what blog is yours again?_ Aziraphale’s far too _good_ at what he does to be stuck with some unknown blog that gets 50 views a day. Crowley briefly wonders what his last name is; he could go into the receipts, look up the man’s credit card, go google it. Find what’s probably a genially nice blog with absolutely beautiful wine reviews drowned in anecdotes about the man’s daily life. Like a mommy blog, but more alcoholic.

(Crowley’s sadly familiar with the concept of a _mommy recipe blog,_ because those - normally rich, white, and heterosexual - mommies occasionally come visit his winery; he doesn’t want to hear about the husband’s rejection of vegetables as if his cock’s gonna fall off if he eats a broccoli, christ, he’s just here for the pot pie recipe, where the fuck _is it._ )

Anathema and Newt have been running all the purchases. They usually do, because Crowley feels like he has to project the image of a cool, detached owner, and that kind of owner isn’t going to know how to run the till. (It doesn’t matter than he can access till records on his phone. It doesn’t. He still isn’t going to look — that feels like he’s cheating at their game.) Anyway, He isn’t. It isn’t. Crowley isn’t.

On top of all of that it’s an absurd thought, because he hasn’t even had _Anathema_ out here, and she’s as close to an apprentice as he’ll ever get - well, her and Adam - and yet this dreamy anxiety-driven piece of Crowley’s brain has produced this image of him leading Aziraphale out here to, well, what? Have a picnic amongst the fucking vines?

(Aziraphale had said _six months,_ like this was some kind of extended business trip. No tiny blogger would be able to manage that — unless Aziraphale’s independently rich and this is a hobby? If it’s really six months, he’ll be able to see harvest, and — fucking _hell,_ Crowley, cut this _out.)_

“I am _watching_ you,” Crowley hisses at the vines. They aren’t dead, he knows they aren’t dead, he knows this happens every winter and every spring, and - eleven years - and yet he’s still here, belting a life’s worth of awful insecurity out into verbal abuse that’s directed at the earth, at the growth, at a life cycle he really has no ability to affect, other than those few places where tending can make a difference. The vines have grown for thirty, maybe forty years without his touch and his words and his fertilizer and all the other petty things he thinks he brings here, knowing that the vines will grow and bud and blossom and veraison and burst for years after he’s gone — whatever year they all fail to be profitable and he gets sent back to some stupid smoking crowded city with his stupid smoking crowded thoughts.

Why is he _still like this._ Crowley wants to crouch down, pull up handfuls of dirt, shove his face into them. He wants to rub the earth into his cheeks; bury his face in the soft scent. Eleven goddamned _fucking_ years he’s been out here and he hasn’t been able to shake the thirty-some years of never knowing if anyone or anything around him is going to have his back. He’s used to falling. Used to it all crumbling. Eleven years has been a _long large portion of his life_ ; he should be forming some new habits by now.

But those gaps in his bones - those places no vines have found ample earth to feed from; those places where no nutrients lie, only hollows, like a bird - they’re what screams at Crowley in the middle of the night, or at random moments in the tasting room, or — like now, his bare feet planted in the dirt he himself has treated and watered and sprinkled and walked so many times.

“I will _burn you,_ ” Crowley howls, as he turns to give them all a last blazing look. “The day you die on me I will _burn you to the ground_ and I will plant, I don’t know, what’s the most _insulting_ thing I can grow on you? Merlot? Pinot Gris? Olives? I will _find it,_ and I will grow basil in your _skulls._ ”

———

It’s an anxious week, maybe two, somewhere between those bounds - Crowley isn’t counting; he doesn’t count - _Ecdyses_ is fine, doing business at the same pace as last year, everything else proceeding just like last year. And yet that seeking, haunting, needing thing that howls around inside of Crowley: it yells, _we will let you down;_ it hollers, _nothing here will save you,_ because no one ever has.

And then - god, lord, fuck; he doesn’t know how many days pass - Crowley comes out here, to the hill and hollow where the most special of his old vines lie here in the shadows like recalcitrant children — and there are buds.

He freezes.

Literally freezes; this also happens every goddamn year but Crowley tries his best to delete it from his memory because he hates how he _melts._ Someone like him — someone with all of the — so much _shit to bear —_ he should be keeping better track of himself, like, meditation and yoga, probably some safe-paced kind of living, vegetables and shit — what the _fuck_ is he even saying?

Every spring, it’s this fucking - it’s this shit - it’s this goddamned fucking bullshit fucking shit that _gets_ him, deep in his chest, somewhere he assumes is near his heart just because of how much it _hurts._ It’s the sense of relief that sets a person off, dopamine and serotonin and endorphins all blending together; it knits together until it’s this fucking blanket of an understanding no man needs to see at this point in his (terrible; broken; stitched-together) life.

Maybe if Crowley had gone to see the three - four? Maybe - shrinks that Anathema had shoved in his direction he would have more control over this kind of thing; he might have any kind of voice here. Instead, he stands and stares at the buds on the vines for what feels hours. Tiny shapes — little green sparks, emerging; in some cases it’s just the brown woody knots on the cane and the vine, split open to reveal a place where some small translucent petals may be hovering in the shadows in the background.

Crowley feels like he’s going to melt: just sink down to the ground, overwhelmed, and this happens every year, too. Maybe by the time he’s sixty he’ll be able to look at these vines without having an anxiety attack, Jesus.

He breathes the budburst in. He breathes his anxiety out. For a long while, Crowley just stands and breathes, and tries to let the tension sink into the soil. He imagines it as rain, sinking into the ground, eventually coming to feed the roots and tendrils of his old vines. Crowley could stand here all day, watering the plants with all the emotions he’s never learnt to handle.

Instead, he heads inside. He has no shoes on; he doesn’t care. Who’s going to write him up for a health code violation at this hour, himself? He heads down into the basement, where they store everything. The front racks are incredibly well-organized, because Anathema keeps them, and Newt does what Anathema says; but there’s a back room where they keep remnants, leftovers, the few bottles Crowley tucks away when he gets an urge. He heads there now, pulls the string to turn on the god-awful lightbulbs hanging from a ceiling he doesn’t ever look at for too long because there might be _spiders,_ and starts to look at the shelf.

An old bottle of _Divine Passion,_ wow, that’s old; Anathema had made him change the name after hearing patrons discuss not buying it because it was ‘racy’. Crowley tucks that bottle under his arm, along with a Magnificat Silver that’s possibly seven years old — he’ll need to check the label. An old bottle of Adam and Eve, and then an even older bottle of Judith. And there’s the Chard he’d called Exodus before he’d really learnt how to fertilize his ground, which had later become Honey and Psalms. Fuck, he can’t carry any more than this.

Crowley carefully makes his way upstairs with these five bottles of wine that he’s sacrificing up to the gods of the vineyards today. He carefully places them on the table in the break room and then heads back to his house. He needs to shower, and dress up appropriately: today _Ecdyses_ will truly and honestly celebrate budburst.

Crowley feels a bit empty, but in a good way, having poured out the static noise that usually plagues his ears. He is, he finds, ready to actually celebrate.

———

It’s ten-o’clock, and they’re all absolutely buzzing.

No one cares. They’ve had all of two customers, which they’ve happily toasted, announcing that it’s Budburst Day; the customers, looking for croissants, smiled with that tightness around their mouth that means they don’t get the joke. Crowley doesn’t care. He’s texted all of The Them because the official budburst is _important_ to him and he needs all of his erstwhile employees here, around him, the walls that help hold this place up.

Anathema is already giggly, and Crowley predicts a nap in her future if she doesn’t start drinking water. She and Newt claimed the bottle of Divine Passion, which had just made Crowley roll his eyes and open what turned out to be a nine-year-old bottle of Judith, his Syrah, which is fucking delicious. Crowley intends to have the entire bottle consumed before noon.

Despite his profession, Crowley isn’t a problem drinker, doesn’t do this kind of thing often; yeah, he drinks at least a glass a day, because it’s his job, but more often than not he’s happy to leave it at that. Not today. Full budbreak is a fucking holiday in here, and they’re going to celebrate it even if he has to close the place down because they’re too drunk to function.

By eleven, Crowley’s decided to give every patron one free tasting sample. Why not? Budburst is _that important._ Also, he’s most of the way through that bottle of Judith, which is a _lot_ to have before lunchtime. No regrets, though. His stomach may be weak to anxiety and fits of depressive raging, but when it comes to wine, it’s stronger than most.

By noon, Judith is dead, along with the Divine Passion and Exodus. The Magnificat Silver is near dying, and Pepper’s holding the bottle close to her lap and giving horribly threatening looks to anyone who comes near her. Adam’s opened a bottle of Lilith, his own favorite, but Crowley’s going to have to venture down into the basement soon. (Brian has claimed the bottle of Adam and Eve, but since he’s currently asleep on the table in the kitchens, it hasn’t exactly met its doom yet.)

The afternoon passes in a pleasant blur. Crowley heads back out to check the vines again after a terrible moment where he’s sure he got it _wrong_ ; his dress is swishing round his ankles, and his feet are still bare, and when he gets out there and sees the tiny sprouting greenlings all over again he kind of considers crying for a hot second before he realizes it’ll smear his eyeliner.

It’s around dinnertime when the energy of the winery picks up — not the guests; it’s some appalling day of the week, maybe a Thursday, Crowley doesn’t even know. While they’ve had a steady flow of customers in and out around their drunken revels, it’s been the light trickle they usually see on weekdays. It’s The Them, actually, talking excitedly about closing early and heading down towards Santa Rosa in one of those ride-share cars to go hit some breweries - breweries, yes, they say, grinning at Crowley, like they’re sick of wine - to continue the celebration. When asked, Crowley makes noises like he’s considering it, because he’s sort of toddling along on the line between drunk and smashed, but truth be told drinking out with his employees really isn’t his thing. Anathema, having had her nap (right out on the tasting room bar, head down in her arms, Newt babbling the most adorable excuses to a bunch of guests who very clearly did not want to ask and did not want to know), immediately takes charge, trying to look up which abysmal cab-wannabe ap has the best service ratings. She and Newt won’t go, of course, but shes the kind that takes care of The Them like a mama duck.

The door swings open, and there’s a familiar face - oh, that’s right, the lad that works with - and then Aziraphale walks in, a messenger bag over his shoulder, looking entirely out-of-place, and something in Crowley’s sodden, drunken heart just flips the fuck over. Fuck, but he’s drunk.

“Warlock!” Adam crows, over Crowley’s shoulder, and Crowley watches Aziraphale’s sullen-looking lad look up and give this absolutely blinding grin, a bit of relief and excitement lighting up that otherwise dull face. “Mate! Glad you could make it.”

“Yeah, me too,” Warlock says, and glances over his shoulder at Aziraphale; the older man is wearing the kind of smile someone makes when they’re feeling a bit awkward but determined to not make a big deal of it. “Had the old man come with me, you know, get him out of the house.”

The smile Crowley’s watching a bit too closely twists a bit, coarsely — but then Pepper’s hugging Aziraphale, and bringing him up to the bar, a friendly arm around his shoulders. “I’m not sure whether Warlock explained, really, but today is official budburst,” she’s telling him. Aziraphale looks a little overwhelmed, but also a little curious, and the contrast is another thing Crowley likes about him. “Big holiday, you know, we’ve been drinking since nine, everyone celebrates, and since you said you’re not in the mood for ale tonight maybe you can just sit here with Crowley and help _him_ celebrate. Right?” The look Pepper lands on Crowley almost hurts in its intensity, and Crowley pulls a face at her, even as she sits Aziraphale down at the tasting bar. “You’ve got Anathema and Newt too,” Pepper continues, “if this absolute twit is too far gone on budbreak to talk to you.”

Crowley isn’t saying anything but that’s because Aziraphale’s eyes on him have a weight he hadn’t expected and oh, fuck, that’s right, it’s fucking _budburst_ and he’s dressed in his _best._ This means Crowley - this year, anyway; it changes from year to year, and always has - is wearing an absolutely gorgeous deep-necked black dress, the skirt of which branches out over his thin waist with extra layers to provide a better _swooshing_ motion any time he moves. The dress itself is black but the bits coming out and down over his arms and back are some sort of translucent fabric, not mesh but the same look, and Crowley has loved the way it frames his arms since he bought the thing. He’s wearing his hair down, and it’s in a tangle of curls he might be self-conscious about but Anathema would call _luscious,_ and because it’s budbreak he put on eyeliner and mascara because he’s nothing if not the original drama queen. Not that anyone can tell, behind the sunglasses, but it’s the principle of the thing.

The thing is that all of this flashes through his head as he stares at Aziraphale (really, what the devil is this man’s last name?) and wonders whether this is going to be it. In his experience, older men that look like Aziraphale dresses don’t always have the capacity to take in Crowley’s extravagances, and there’s a sad minute where Crowley’s brain thinks, _oh shit oh fuck, this is too much,_ before his other more protective algorithms kick in and tell him he’s doing nothing wrong. His brain, always happy to comply, get ready to make anxiety stew.

There is one long, odd moment, where they’re looking at each other, but — Crowley starts to get the feeling that it isn’t necessarily the situation, but more the context, perhaps? There’s nothing on Aziraphale’s face about rejection, just a suddenly cautious question, as if he’s making sure he hasn’t misstepped.

Crowley tilts his head, and he really …can’t help it; he smiles at Aziraphale, something that’s meant to be a simple quirk around the lips, but it’s that tiny small motion that apparently makes Aziraphale comfortable, because his entire mouth turns up, the beaming smile of something lovely.

Although it goes crooked; “I feel like I’m intruding,” Aziraphale murmurs, although it’s loud enough that Crowley can pick out up. “I didn’t realize this was an _event._ I just thought I’d come here for a glass of wine and get some writing done while Warlock had himself some fun.”

Crowley absolutely cannot help the sigh of relief that escapes him at this point. (And why does he _give a fuck?_ So there’s _one customer_ that doesn’t care when he goes out to twiddle around on the gender presentation scale; this customer also unironically wears _bowties._ )

“It’s budburst,” Crowley says, as if that explains everything. He feels warm, soggy, the comfortable haze of drunk settling down into the crevices of his brain. “The official one, I mean.”

Aziraphale gets more comfortable in his chair, setting the messenger bag on the floor. Crowley’s leaning into the bar: interested, intrigued, as loose as a snake. “What makes this the official day?” Aziraphale asks him, and Crowley can see the urge to take out his little notebook and start writing. “Is this a — local holiday?”

“Today,” Crowley starts, pointing dramatically at Aziraphale, “is official because the Old Vine Zin has finally budded. _That’s_ what makes it official.”

The Them and Warlock are stumbling their way out the door, grinning, yelling goodbyes as they stumble out to whatever car Anathema has summoned for them. Crowley notes that Warlock has an open bottle of Cup of Demons in his hand; he’s trying to hide it against his thigh as he walks, looking a bit guilty, and Crowley smirks.

“Don’t get in trouble!” Anathema yells at them.

“Get in loads of trouble,” Crowley calls after them. “Loads. Do everything I wouldn’t do.”

“Crowley,” Newt says, trying to sound innocent but just sounding drunk, “what kind of things are on the list of what you wouldn’t do?”

Crowley gives him what’s supposed to be an angry pout, except Newt bursts out giggling. The boy is _drunk._ It’s _awesome._

_“Well,”_ Aziraphale says, tentatively, “I don’t believe I’ve had any of your Zinfandel yet, have I?”

“I don’t recall,” Crowley says, although of course he does. He’s been waiting, oddly enough. He’s never heard Aziraphale’s name in the wine tasting world, of course, but the way the man can read into Crowley’s wines is amazing, and Crowley’s Zins are... well. The heart of this place, anyway.

“Let’s!” Anathema cries. She’s also easily as drunk as Crowley. It’s an intimate feeling, here, the four of them around the bar. “What do we have up here?” She turns around to immediately answer her own question; “Oh,” she adds. “We’ve got all three.”

“Anything reserve?” Crowley asks her.

“Not here,” Anathema says, and then she straightens up and her eyes widen as she looks at Crowley.

“Right,” Crowley says, feeling daring, feeling bold, feeling fucking _high_ on the entire day. “Get your notebook out, Aziraphale, because it’s time to taste heaven.”

———

Crowley emerges from the basement armed with six bottles. There’s absolutely no way they’ll drink them all — only four of them left, and three of the four already soused beyond recognition. The skirt swishes, luxurious, around his ankles as he clumsily sets the bottles onto the bar, and then heads around to the other side to sit next to his guest.

Aziraphale still looks a little overwhelmed, really, but he’s loosened his bowtie and taken off his coat, and he seems to relax as Crowley throws himself loosely into the seat beside, a mess of limbs and angles and dark fabric.

“I suggested that Newton make us some grilled cheese,” Aziraphale tells him, and it comes out _very_ British: the apology for imposing layered over the smug tone of having had a good idea. “It’s a good neutralizing bite to be had when tasting dark reds, and also I thought that he might prefer something... simple.”

Crowley laughs, leans onto the bar, rests his cheek in his hand. “‘S a good idea,” he tells Aziraphale. “Clean out the palate, right?”

“Something like that.” Aziraphale shuffles in his seat, glancing over at the bottles Crowley’s set down. “Are you sure you want to — to open all of these?”

“Lesss see what we get to,” Crowley says, a bit of a hiss hanging on the end of it, like he always ends up doing when he’s drunk. The entire room is a warm buzz and he’s spending most of his energy focusing on Aziraphale’s face. “How’d you know to come today?”

(What the fuck is he _doing?_ Covering a few topics of conversation with this stranger and suddenly he’s _besotted?_ (Some of it is the wine, of course.) Crowley likes the thrill of it — that sense of, what would happen if there was a mutual sort of interest, yeah, kind of walking a fine line around those boundaries. He’s a fucking flirt. But what is it about _Aziraphale?)_

“I didn’t,” Aziraphale says, smiling slightly, and Crowley remembers (like an idiot) that Aziraphale has already explained this. Oh well. “It was your boy Adam that texted my Warlock, invited him out for a night on the town. I honestly didn’t want to intrude at all. I just...” He gestures at the messenger bag. “I only intended to get a glass of something delicious and sit in the corner and write. I had no idea this was going on.”

Crowley’s going to have to give Adam a raise. (What the _fuck?_ ) “No, no, stay,” Crowley says, reaching out to touch the back of Aziraphale’s hand and then — yanking his stupid hand away, going for his glass instead, pretending he’d meant to finish it off. “You’re a foodie, right? A _blogger?_ This is once-in-a-lifetime access to _Ecdyses’_ basement archive.”

“I wouldn’t dare say no,” Aziraphale says, his eyes tracking Crowley. Why are they so — blue? Blue with a hint of grey, like the ocean Crowley sometimes goes to see, goes to yell at; the ocean beneath the clouds, a storm brewing on the horizon. Steel and water; cloud and stream. He is a drunken idiot.

“This is exactly what I came out to the Russian River Valley for,” Aziraphale continues, and shrugs, somewhat shy. “I have no idea why you’ve invited me in, but there’s absolutely no reason for me to turn it down. So. Thank you.”

The words burn on Crowley’s skin. He hates being thanked; he’d rather just do things and have people refrain from putting any kind of meaning on it. Still, from Aziraphale, it isn’t quite as bad — mainly because Aziraphale clearly means the words genuinely. Oh, this is terrible.

It’s great that Anathema bursts out of the back room with her hands full of stems, then, because Crowley isn’t really sure what he would have said given another three seconds here: something like _what blog are you and how can I catapult you to stardom,_ or _you’re absolutely welcome, do you want to go walk barefoot in my vineyard in the dark,_ or _what would happen if I touched your face?_ They’re all absolutely horrible conversational starters, and Crowley’s going to have to give Anathema a raise as well, he just won’t remember why tomorrow.

“Newt’ll be right out with those sandwiches,” Anathema says, as she sets down what must be twelve tasting glasses on the bar. Crowley has no idea how she’s carried so many; witchcraft, probably. She starts doling them out, three to a spot. “I don’t think we want to have more than three at a time, but I can get more if we do.”

“Perfect, my dear,” Aziraphale says, his notebook having appeared from nowhere. “Can we have some waters as well?”

“Oh,” Anathema says, turning a bit pink; seems like Aziraphale’s little endearments work on more than one member of the staff. “Right.”

Aziraphale starts sliding the bottles over, one by one, and reading the labels. Crowley frowns viciously; Bee has rewritten most of his labels, exaggerating flavors they think indicate wine that’s worth more money. But he watches, amused, because Aziraphale’s mouth is moving, reading the words in a whisper as he compares label to label.

Finally Newt stumbles out of the kitchen with a tray full of grilled cheese quarters. Crowley spots pickles, ham, tomato; three different kinds of cheeses; four different kinds of bread. It’s an absolute pile of butter and carbs. Aziraphale’s entire face glows as his eyes shut and he breathes the scent in deep, and Crowley wants to hit himself in the face with a wine bottle. Anathema follows, bearing a giant pitcher of water and four glasses - again, somehow; is she a witch? - and sets it down next to the extravagancy of the sandwiches.

“Now _this_ is an evening,” says Aziraphale, wiggling in his seat, and Crowley sighs out loud at it.

———

They start with Apocalypse.

Crowley can’t help it. He’s nearly too drunk to speak, but he absolutely needs to hear what Aziraphale thinks of the Zinfandel he considers the _heart_ of this winery, and it’s his favorite besides. He takes his time, carefully pouring four glasses of Apocalypse 2014, and then doling out the - incredibly valuable, at this point, he’s probably trashing about two hundred dollars with this sloppy pour - Apocalypse 2012.

“You don’t need anything else for comparison at this point,” he tells Aziraphale, who’s already in raptures just taking in the aroma. “We’ll get into the others later. This is ... this is it.”

“I can tell,” Aziraphale breathes. Crowley’s entire attention span is riveted at the curve of his lips, waiting. “The smell alone, Crowley, this is... Heavens, but it’s decadent.”

Crowley catches Anathema out of the corner of his eye, sniffing at one and then the other, also hanging on Aziraphale’s every word. Behind her, Newt has given up, and has a grilled cheese in either hand, alternating bites.

“2014 and 2012,” Crowley says, gesturing. “I might have a 2010 if I go digging but that was _such_ a hard year, I’m not sure it’s worth the time.”

Aziraphale’s gaze flicks between the two. “They look of a color,” he tells Crowley, fascinated. “But the scent is completely — well, not completely different. There’s the same blackberry-pepper taste beneath both of their aromas. But this is...” Aziraphale lifts the older of the two and buries his nose in the glass. Crowley can’t breathe for a long minute. “This one is getting into that - the green pepper, the vegetable - the scent of a rich marinara alongside the actual wine.”

Anathema shoves the glass over her nose, and frowns. Crowley wonders how he can get them to leave. “This doesn’t smell like spaghetti,” she tells Aziraphale, and it comes out sounding almost insulted.

“No, dear,” Aziraphale says with a little giggle that’s absolutely more endearing than Crowley wants to consider. He pulls her glass away, then swirls it a bit for her, and holds it out at a particular distance. “Breathe it in. Slowly. Find the pepper; the green pepper is only a little bit behind that.”

“I can make a green pepper cheese,” Newt offers. He’s chewing on the crusts. He’s obliterated and Crowley finds it massively funny.

“You may want to try it again tomorrow,” Aziraphale offers gently, and Anathema reaches for a grilled cheese and tomato, considering it like it’s a court summons.

“The thing is,” Aziraphale continues, as if nothing else has happened; “green pepper, and black pepper, and vanilla, it all sounds like a terrible combination, but this - _this_ \- this is a sign of a wine with years to it. This is a wine that could age for another ten, honestly, and still come out strong.” He sighs happily. “It should also absolutely open up if paired with the right little scrumptious tidbit.” The word _scrumptious_ echoes in Crowley’s ears oddly, as if it’s possibly the most interesting thing he’s ever heard. “The wine on its own is remarkable. But pair it with - with - with a chicken curry, or a peppered and grilled steak, or a strong cheese? That wine pairing will be knocking people _unconscious_.”

And Aziraphale turns to Crowley, and gives him this brilliantly bright smile, as if Crowley’s invented the grape. “Unbelievable,” he says.

Crowley can’t stop the crooked smile that spreads across his face. “Go ahead, try the other one.”

He watches as Aziraphale sniffs at it and makes the kind of noise Crowley’s used to hearing in - well, places other than his tasting room - and then sips at it, delicately, and makes that same luscious noise again, only louder.

(What the _fuck,_ Crowley thinks. That’s it, he has to think the thought: drunk him has a _crush_ on this goddamned preppy fuck of a foodie; it is what it is, he’ll wake up sober and miserable about it, but right now with the hum of his own grapes and soil in his veins, softly damping down all the emotional bullshit that’s usually roiling around his own head, it’s okay. He can look at Aziraphale and think about the possibility of maybe delicately considering the thought of having a want. That distance, that detachment, yes, that’s him. Yes.)

“Oh, I don’t even _know,_ ” Aziraphale breathes, and Crowley’s entire chest cavity squirrels up inside him like someone pulling the threads on a knot. “Heavens. The older one has picked up those soil flavors, you can tell, but the _jam_ in this, Crowley, this is thick as a _pie._ ”

“Tell me,” Crowley says, a drunken disaster hanging on these words, and Aziraphale’s eyes are sparkling as he launches into a treatise on dark berries and jammy hints.

———

It’s a handful of days later, Crowley having finally gotten rid of his budburst hangover (those hangovers can outlast twenty-four hours, he’s found, especially as he grows older). It’s something like fucking six o’clock in the morning, and he’s out hissing at the old vines, and his pocket - where his mobile is - lights on fucking fire.

Crowley groans, and pulls his phone out, opening up his text messages, where Anathema has apparently been going feral.

> _CROWLEY!_
> 
> _CROWLEY_
> 
> _ANTHONY JANTHONY CROWLEY_
> 
> _DID YOU KNOW????????????_
> 
> _A Z FELL DID AN ARTICLE ON US_
> 
> _ON OUR WINERY_
> 
> _ITS HIM_
> 
> _ITS HIM!!!!!!!_
> 
> _ARE YOU THERE_
> 
> _CROWLEYYYYYYYYYY_
> 
> _Http://atasteofheaven.fta.com/040319/ive-found-a-delicious-place..._
> 
> _READ THIS YOU TWAT_

Crowley freezes, then grimaces, and then jerks the phone up to click on the link.

 _So,_ the lead-in reads, _I’ve found a delicious place right around the corner, with what is possibly the tastiest Zinfandel I’ve ever had in my life..._

Crowley’s still. He cannot move. His eyes are tracing the words on the screen as if he can’t recognize the alphabet anymore. How is this — how is this?

 _Meet A. Z. Fell,_ a link says, and Crowley taps it with his finger and scrolls down.

At the bottom of the article there’s a photograph. Crowley’s never bothered to read this page before. The photo is old, sure, and the dark grey suit jacket is particularly unflattering, but that’s Aziraphale, there, giving the camera the kind of smile Crowley’s come to think of as the kind of thing Aziraphale offers when he isn’t really sure what else to do.

Fucking _Aziraphale._ A. Z. Fell.

It’s _him._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Growth - how it happens to you as well as how it changes you - is one of the underlying themes in this work, and that’s why so many things had to tie into this chapter and what budburst means to a little winery like _Ecdyses_. It’s different but the same underneath; the same but different every time. You'll see this growth question in both Crowley and Aziraphale as the story goes on, now that the vineyard itself has started to grow.
> 
> I love you all! Do leave a comment if you can, they're like little happy points in my day. I adore them.
> 
> [yell at me on tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/sevdrag) or [ask me anything](https://sevdrag.tumblr.com/ask).


	5. The Tentative Blend of Two Reds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Because there are parts of this life Aziraphale is afraid he could _love._ The lusciousness of the flavors; the variability of the terroir. The sun, the way fifteen miles of road can drop thirty degrees in temperature, the fog. The soft rain. The people, as well: Madame Tracy and her Sergeant. Tara. Crowley leaps into his mind again, dazzling with enthusiasm, his handsome face lit with curiosity even behind those damned shades. Aziraphale _likes_ talking to people here, the ones who are actually curious about his subject matter. (Not like Gabriel, who’s only curious about dollar signs. Not like Warlock, even, who displays a mild curiosity about Aziraphale’s work that stretches only as far as Warlock needs to impress people when on dates.)
> 
> Aziraphale is a creature of habits and a creature of comforts. The new unsettles him, until he can take it and weave it into his own tartan; and this valley, so far, is nothing but surprises.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you guys all CONTINUE to AMAZE me with your responses and lovely comments, oh! I ADORE THIS FANDOM. I love you ALL. _Kudos me HARDER._
> 
> (are we done yelling about the lockdown video yet cause im not)  
> (im not)  
> (ill never be)

Aziraphale has always liked a Meritage. As much as he likes tasting the pure varietals, all gathered and fermented and aged to be best-in-class, there’s something about the blending of grape types that can really lead to a flavor that’s bigger than the sum of its parts.

He’s at _The Cecilia,_ which has turned out to be quite delicious; most of what they put out is blended, mainly because their vineyard’s too small to really support pure varietals. The owner - an older woman named Tara - has been happily explaining to Aziraphale and Warlock how the business works; apparently it’s a common thing here.

“There are lots that make grapes but not wine,” Tara tells them as Warlock reaches for another bag of crisps. “And wineries that don’t grow grapes. And everything in between, of course, but the truth is that you need maybe ten acres to even start to support yourself on your own grapes, and that assumes nothing happens to your yield.”

“Fascinating,” Aziraphale tells her. There’s a Meritage of Pinot Noir, Syrah, and Merlot that he’s currently enjoying - it’s _deliciously_ layered - and she’s offered him two more to sample. “So not everyone here is — goes directly from their own land to their own bottle?”

“Oh, heavens no,” Tara says. She’s tall and stout, solidly built around the shoulders, and Aziraphale absolutely can picture her wading around in wooden barrels of grapes, happily crushing them with her feet. Or whatever they do now. As much as he loves the end-product, Aziraphale’s never learnt much about the process. Not until this trip, really. That’s what it’s for, isn’t it?

“This ground is variable,” Tara tells them. “Even ten acres sometimes ain’t ten acres. Hills change it, trees change it — hell, some spots are Goldridge soil and some are Altamont and you can get surprised on your own damn lands. Sometimes failed vineyards get split up into smaller areas people can afford to buy as an investment, tend their own stuff. There’s no rule saying you need to grow and bottle on the same piece.”

Aziraphale’s making notes as fast as he can. “I would think it’s more ... efficient?” He tilts his head, because that isn’t exactly the right word. “Economical? Perhaps? But then again, I really don’t know very much about the business. Just the, uh,” and he gestures at his nearly-empty glass of wine. “Just the end product.”

“Look, there are a lot of things that can happen out here and impact somebody’s crop. Nobody stays consistent from year to year. So yeah, we all do business in whatever way we can.” Tara shrugs. “We found out the hard way here that we can’t survive with the mix of grapes we had, so we had a choice: either outsource some of the product, or slash and burn and replant to a mix we could support.”

Warlock, beside him, is stabbing his fingers at his phone on some flashy game. Aziraphale smiles at him, and then gestures for Tara to give the boy a refill.

“It’s not a thing to be ashamed of,” Tara tells him then, and Aziraphale jerks his head up to meet her eyes, surprised. Her smile’s a bit wry. “Some of them boys’ll tell you a wine only counts when it’s womb-to-tomb, but that’s the prejudice of the land speaking, them that’ve been here for generations and think their way’s better.” She laughs. “There are those who know their soil and their flavors and their winemaking well enough without needing to know every inch of the dirt.”

Aziraphale smiles at her, taking another long sip of this - the word means _marriage,_ he thinks - of grapes from different places, the yields of different soils. He likes them because of that, the breadth of flavor if not the depth. He wonders whether Crowley has tried his hand at a Meritage. Aziraphale feels like it could be stunning.

“There are plenty of wineries here with no land,” Tara continues. “And plenty of vineyards with no winery. Some folks have a knack for one and not the other.”

Aziraphale finishes off his glass and puts a couple notes into his journal. “So what do you have next?”

“Let’s try this,” Tara says, and her smile is something secretive; Aziraphale wonders whether all vineyard owners have a smile like that, as if they know something you don’t — not about the wine, which they obviously know many things about, but about yourself.

She pours. It’s a delightful red ruby, the lees marked but thin. “This is a Pinot Noir Meritage,” she tells him; “three different Pinots, from completely different spots in the Russian River Valley. One’s ours, the other two we buy. It’s richer than any other Pinot you’ll find here.”

“Now that sounds like a challenge,” Aziraphale says as he breathes it in. Sharp raspberry, then, with plums underlying and the essence of burnt toast following, adding a hint of smoke and the delicious tease of a bit of heavy vanilla. “Oh, my, but this is _dazzling.”_

———

“Aziraphale,” Gabriel repeats. His voice is even more booming over the speakerphone conference call, thing, whatever Warlock had set up for them and then _vanished_ from to hide in the corner of the room with some book on his tablet. Aziraphale keeps sending him cross looks; Warlock keeps making terrible faces. It’s the only bearable part of this entire... thing.

“We’ve seen a definite increase in your traffic since you started this trip, and since that excellent long piece about that little winery you found, there’s been another spike. You _have_ to keep it up.”

“That isn’t exactly ...how it works,” Aziraphale insists. His hands are clutching each other on the table in front of him, not touching the keys — specifically whichever key would hang up on Gabriel’s stupid face. “Good pieces depend on good wineries... no, not just good wineries. Great ones.” He brightens. “I may have found another today. Going to come up with some pairings today, see how they settle out.”

“Just find something _great_ about every winery, then,” Gabriel says, as if it’s easy. “Pick the one stupendous thing about every place and write it like you wrote that last one. I swear, Uriel only had to add a couple of the SEO keywords and she was able to keep it in the captions.”

Aziraphale rubs a hand over his face and hopes Gabriel can’t hear the sigh he’s trying to hide. “Gabriel, I’m not going to compromise my standards to produce copy,” he says, some of the frustration coming out at the tip of his tongue. “I certainly won’t publish anything negative, I know, Michael’s told me that enough times already, but some wineries are worth four paragraphs and some are worth fourteen.”

“Ugh, Aziraphale, you’re being difficult,” Gabriel tells him frankly, and Aziraphale throws Warlock a desperate glance. Warlock rolls his eyes and gives the setup the middle finger. Aziraphale suddenly wishes he had a thousand eyes just so that he could roll them all at Gabriel.

“Look, what about a different tack?” Aziraphale hasn’t fully thought the idea through, mainly because Gabriel can still veto it, but it’s worth a try. “I’ve been learning a good deal about the process of — everything, really. Growing the grapes, making the wines, how things age. Do you think my—” He spits the hated words out before he can regret them: “My _target demographic_ would find a little of that interesting as part of the book as well?”

“Hmmm,” Gabriel sounds, but it isn’t the one where he immediately shuts Aziraphale down, so there’s hope. “Let me have Michael run some numbers, get back to you on that, but ...it’s an interesting tack. Not bad. If it got readers more interested in wine country, we could sell directed advertising spots to hotels and wineries out there, crack a deal with some of them. Maybe even sponsor a wine tour if things get as big as we’re hoping.” Aziraphale can almost _hear_ Gabriel’s most annoying smile. “And they’re going to get that big, aren’t they?”

“I certainly hope so,” Aziraphale tells his hands, which have come up to form fists in front of his face. That might be a bad sign.

“So, we’ve talked about the blog, you’re going to work on that,” Gabriel says breezily, absolutely ignoring that Aziraphale has said nothing of the sort. “How goes the book, then?”

“It’s starting marvelously,” Aziraphale tells him, which is actually _not_ a lie. He’s started a meandering bit that will stand either as introduction or as a first chapter, describing his first impressions of the Russian River Valley wine country while weaving through a (mostly made-up) bit about how he’d gotten into food-and-wine pairings in the first place. His normal writing tone has worked quite well with it so far, and he’s fairly sure he’ll be able to finish the piece with a great lead-in to the rest of the book.

The rest of the book is, of course the issue.

“Do send a snippet,” Gabriel says with jovial cheer (it could be forced, but Aziraphale fears it’s actually genuine). “You know your little bits and pieces cheer me up when they arrive in my Inbox! It’s so full of _serious business,_ you know.”

Aziraphale laughs, because he is supposed to laugh when Gabriel says things like that. “I shall.” It won’t hurt to send a paragraph or two. He’s fairly sure Gabriel won’t actually read any of it anyway.

“Alright, well, I have to run.” The man sounds actually disappointed, as if Gabriel has real human feelings. “We need at least two more articles this week, you know, big ones. Good luck!”

“Thank you,” Aziraphale says politely, because he doesn’t dare to say anything else.

After the phone line clicks, Aziraphale summons Warlock over to make sure everything is truly disconnected, and once the boy has, Aziraphale lets loose the frustrated snarl that’s been hovering in the back of his throat like a bad aftertaste.

Warlock sits down across from him and taps at the table until he gets Aziraphale’s attention. “Increased traffic is a _good_ thing, you idiot,” he says fondly.

“I know,” Aziraphale says with a sigh. “But it’s only going to make them push me more. I _already_ have no clue how to fill a book with my little... musings. Pressure will only make it worse.”

“No,” Warlock says, tapping at the table again. “It’s good for us too. Gives me more clout to push back against that wanker. The traffic is there for _you,_ Az.”

“It’s only going to make Gabriel want more out of me,” Aziraphale admits. “If they correlate the traffic with something, they’re just going to ask for more of it.”

Warlock makes this noise that’s half laugh and half something else entirely. He leans forward, elbows on the table, hands clasped, and Aziraphale’s reminded that this young man _is,_ in fact, his assistant and agent both. Warlock’s been to school for this, went through a number of trainings in his industry before officially picking up this contract; sometimes Aziraphale despairs, but honestly, Warlock does know what he’s doing.

“I know this contract occasionally drives you crazy,” Warlock tells him. “That’s okay. Most contracts will. They’re like that. They always try to squeeze as much profit out of you as they can. That’s the other side’s job, okay? Just acknowledge it.”

Aziraphale frowns, but he nods, afraid he’s being particularly sulky about the whole thing.

“The thing that you need to remember, Az, is that you’re the one with the power in your hands here. Not them.” Warlock must see the way he wants to protest written on his face, because he pulls his hands up from the table to gesture harshly for Aziraphale to stop. “Yes, you lose the opportunity and go back to where you were before, but I mean, so what? You’ve been there before, you know how that works. You could be comfortable there. Remember that they’re the ones taking the risk on marketing you in this weird way — you know what you are, Az. You’re a known quantity.” Warlock sniffs. “Probably the most stable known quantity outside the New York Stock Exchange. Friggin’ idiot.” It’s said with unbearable fondness and Aziraphale wonders whether he’s going to tear up at it.

“Gabriel can make requests, and we’ll consider them,” Warlock tells him, grinning now. “And sometimes, sure, he’ll be right about it. But I’m not letting them hang you out to dry, for fuck’s sake. You pay me far too much for me to do that to you.”

To his surprise, Aziraphale ends up laughing at that. “Not nearly enough, my good lad. Not nearly enough.”

Warlock lets his grin sharpen, once he can see Aziraphale knows he’s joking about it. “Yeah, we’ll talk about that later. For now, let’s look at the photographs I got at _Cecilia_ today and see if any of them inspire you to a nice long article, yeah?”

———

The thing — is.

There’s a part of Aziraphale that’s suitably intimidated by FTA, by Gabriel and Michael and the others, by an all-expenses-paid trip to wine country for six months, by the promise of a publishing deal and a blogging fan base. Intimidated isn’t exactly the right words because it isn’t like Aziraphale’s cowering in this light; it’s more _impressed_ or _intrigued_?, maybe, but neither one of those is correct either. It’s a combination of all of those and probably a dozen other feelings mixed up with all the issues he firmly tells everyone he doesn’t have.

The point here is — it is, really, that Aziraphale feels like he’s been granted a near-miraculous opportunity here, and he owes it to himself (and to Warlock) to at least explore it to its full potential _before_ deciding it isn’t for him.

Sure, there are signs that it isn’t. Aziraphale doesn’t like any of the corporate edges, nor does he enjoy having to tweak all of his opinions towards the positive. He understands the reluctance for a large corporation to accidentally insult a potential investor, but back in his old days on his old blog, some of his more negative reviews had brought him _more_ attention, because they encouraged dialogue; he’d gotten the best responses from places he hadn’t been that favorable of the first time, as they tried to change his mind with additional recommendations. Having to tread that corporate line is really not his thing.

Nor is filling what he considers his above-average prose with these online internet buzzwords they insist on inserting into his sentences. Aziraphale saves his best writing for his own work, but what he puts up on his blog is a good representation of his skill as a writer, and he always feels like it’s _ruined_ by these tawdry additions they insist he makes within his own sentence structure and narrative. It’s ridiculous.

But all of these things being said makes Aziraphale feel like he hasn’t given the opportunity its full chance to — well, _budburst,_ he thinks for one thrilling moment, picturing Crowley’s face all lit-up with rosy drunken glow as he told Aziraphale about the vines—

It’s the principle of the thing, truly. That’s the point. Aziraphale will have to learn how to bend without breaking. It’s absolutely doable. He’s learnt it so many times before, and to be honest, there is a strength in learning how to do so without shattering one’s core. It’s worth giving Gabriel due diligence. Maybe he’ll find he really enjoys it after all.

Because there are parts of this life Aziraphale is afraid he could _love._ The lusciousness of the flavors; the variability of the terroir. The sun, the way fifteen miles of road can drop thirty degrees in temperature, the fog. The soft rain. The people, as well: Madame Tracy and her Sergeant. Tara. Crowley leaps into his mind again, dazzling with enthusiasm, his handsome face lit with curiosity even behind those damned shades. Aziraphale _likes_ talking to people here, the ones who are actually curious about his subject matter. (Not like Gabriel, who’s only curious about dollar signs. Not like Warlock, even, who displays a mild curiosity about Aziraphale’s work that stretches only as far as Warlock needs to impress people when on dates.)

Aziraphale is a creature of habits and a creature of comforts. The new unsettles him, until he can take it and weave it into his own tartan; and this valley, so far, is nothing but surprises.

———

Their side deck is stunning, Aziraphale is finding; the rear deck is obviously more so, but it also hosts multiple long tables and a constantly-churning Jacuzzi tub which he finds more than a bit intimidating. The side deck is a simple straight stretch of lumber and railing, out a bit into the vineyards that surround _Le Petit Voile,_ and positioned the way he is Aziraphale can enjoy the sunset without staring directly into it. He has a full glass of a Cabernet Sauvignon from _Elyse_ \- which he fully intends to head back to visit one of these days - and is hesitantly pecking out what he thinks - intends - to be the real introduction to whatever book he ends up writing, out here, tucked into California’s flat-hills, its cool-heats, its dry-rivers. He’s been working in his head and in his sleep to try to capture a feeling, and he thinks that maybe now he has the words.

_Have you ever smelled at a thing, perhaps tasted it, and been projected head-over-heels down the astral plane of some memory? They say that smell and taste are the most susceptible of the senses: the easiest led astray, maybe, by so quickly attaching themselves to the scenes we keep within our heads. (Don’t worry; all the senses do it to a point. There remains a particular album that played in the background of a particularly rough moment in my own life that I do still adore, but cannot listen to without having to wade through the thick nostalgia of regret to enjoy.)_

_Think about it: the whiff of rosemary that hints at your grandmother, or the bit of cardamom in the bakery you stopped at during university. The smoky, stomach-turning-rich scent of petrol you walked past on the way to your first job. The odd esters of old books. Scents and tastes, you see, we don’t often lead with those, and that gives them the ability to surprise us: they approach stealthily from the rear, because we’re paying attention to our hearts and our heads and our companions, and it’s only years later that you’ll realize you’ll forever associate the taste of licorice with this particular bad breakup._

_Think about this now, and conjure it for yourself. Nae witchcraft is this; there’s science to support it, and the ramblings of a man with too many taste memories left in his mouth, besides. Remember those moments you’ve had, where a mere glance of a flavor has spawned something familiar to you at the back of your tongue. Taste for that familiarity within it; it might be positive, might be negative, but there’s a sense of knowing that comes along with it, and that particular essence is what grounds you into the sensation._

_Think about this. Remember this flavor. Hold it in your mouth; breathe it into your sinuses. Let it become part of what you are right now, and consider it. The you who is holding this feeling - keeping this familiarity between your teeth and your throat - is caught here; A you of now, and a you of the past, entwining together._

_Now, if you intend to read on:_

_Take that feeling and banish it. Swallow it down your throat; exhale it through your nose. Breathe cleanly to purge out those smoky channels; expel the air through your mouth to be sure you rid yourself of it. Breathe fresh. Do not think of the lingering tendrils of the past, right? This is not a thing that should interfere._

_Because the thing is, I came out here, and experienced a new thing: like a breath of fresh air, yes, but like something I had been_ missing _for years within my lungs. It was the identification of a brand new hole in my throat, a leak into my gut: something that would have been fine had I never tasted it, but once having had it, I’d never again rest without it._

_Those who know me know I grew up near London, and I’m a man of those times; my experience and development towards the bottle always involved France, and Spain, and Italy, and Germany; those hills and valleys lit up with what they called proper sun. There was a narrow road upon which flavors could find their speed, and we drank, and called it a marvel. Each region had a canon, and the flavors obeyed._

_But then I came here, to these ridges and dips, the edges of a continent: tectonic plates that have moved cross each other for centuries, creating a terroir of absolutely joyful chaos. I came here and I drank of their fruit, and as it so happens, it showed me something new._

_The taste of the wines of California is nothing like what I’ve had before. There is no nostalgia here; there are no lingering tendrils to familiar vintages, and no familiar callouts of tradition, and nothing familiar lingers here at all. The taste of blackberry in California is not the taste of blackberry in France, and as my entire soul has decided: we are all the better for it._

_I never would have known the lack was there had I not taken the chance, but these opportunities can strike through to the heart of you and flash your own gaps and gaping holes up against the walls like lightning. For now, my friend, read on with me and learn how I learnt to fill a hole inside myself I never knew was there._

Aziraphale only comes back to himself once the sun has clearly set and a chill has set in and the darkness is making it hard for him to see his fingers, long since stilled on the keys. He re-reads what he wrote, and he knows that it is the beginning of the book that he _wants_ to write, but — some small part of him wonders whether or not he’s truly talking about wine, anymore.

———

A few days and a couple fair but not stunning wineries later, Warlock’s trying to make plans with his new friends again, and Aziraphale happily accompanies him to _Ecdyses_ somewhere round half three in the afternoon for a late lunch / early dinner and a glass of wine or three to help, ah, encourage his next bloody blog article.

The tasting bar is surprisingly busy, so he and Warlock set up at one of the tables in the room, meant for guests looking for the cafe as well as the wine and/or locals who don’t need to press for attention. Aziraphale’s listening to Warlock chatter on about his own personal Instagram - which may be less famous than Aziraphale’s proper blog-related one, but is also more free to post whatever random crap Warlock finds interesting - when suddenly there’s a scuffle behind the bar and a loud wordless yell. They both look up.

Crowley, behind the bar, is staring at them, spluttering some kind of noises that aren’t really syllables or even sounds, just words choked off of a tongue — and then he just yells, “You!”, and _launches_ himself over the counter like an Olympic vaulter. For a very long and possibly slow-motion moment Aziraphale is simply floored by the sheer _lines_ of Crowley: long legs sailing smoothly over his own tasting bar, outlined by what may actually be some sort of leather trouser - trouser is the wrong word; _legging_ might be generous - arms whirling for balance, his torso one long arch down into his hips, that burnt-red hair caught up halfway in a bun with the rest tangling around the angles of his face. Honestly, Aziraphale can only sigh, like some smitten maiden in a gown watching her knight of choice perform some show-off stunning feat.

Then Crowley’s landed on what appear to be burgundy snake-skin boots with actual heels, heaven help him, Aziraphale is _weak_ — and stalking over to them, hiding the stumbles of his leap in a swaggering walk that only makes Aziraphale’s throat _dryer._

“You!” Crowley repeats with a stabbing finger, and yanks a chair away from a nearby table to spin it round, seating himself on it backwards with his arms folded across the top of the back. “What the fuck! You’re _A.Z. Fell._ ”

Aziraphale, nearly choking on his parched throat, just stares at Crowley for a long moment before the words sink in.

Warlock stands up, says very clearly with an obvious gesture of his mobile phone: “Hey, I’m gonna go round back and find ... Brian ... bye.” He makes an exit that really only seems a bit like an escape.

“Well,” Aziraphale says, after a long silence during which he can feel the weight of Crowley’s accusatory gaze even through those dark lenses. “Yes. I rather thought you knew that.”

“Knew that!” Crowley yells, throwing his hands up into the air, and Anathema throws him a terribly dirty look from the tasting bar. It softens when she catches Aziraphale’s eye, and she murmurs something he can’t catch but smiles back at anyway.

“Well,” Aziraphale continues, feeling incredibly awkward. “I mean, you were opening all of those dramatic old bottles, my dear boy, and I just sort of assumed you’d looked up my name and ...well, that you knew.”

He had, really; of course, it was a rather big assumption, but since Aziraphale prefers to _not_ talk about his job or his blog when he’s drinking delicious wines for it, he’d been pleased that Crowley hadn’t seemed to care to mention it. More the fool, him.

“Good Lord,” Crowley announces dramatically, and the look he gives Aziraphale leaves him with no doubt that Crowley is rolling his eyes all the way into space. “How on _earth_ was I supposed to know? I’ve never seen your last name, and _you’ve_ left me with the assumption that you have some tiny WordPress thing with three entire followers, and, hn, I probably _should_ have guessed you were someone big because your palate is _remarkable,_ but how the fuck am I meant to put those pieces together?”

“Oh,” Aziraphale says, faced with a situation he absolutely isn’t used to. “Oh, dear.”

There’s a long moment where Crowley is looking at him and Aziraphale is looking down into his hands, and there’s a moment of choice to have here: does he want to defer, and wave it off, and just back away? It’s the safe route; it’s the way Gabriel tells him to deal with things, and it lets him simply slip away and become an anonymous face. It’s easy. It’s, maybe, something he’ll have to learn to do if a blog or a book becomes popular and his face is more well-known than he intends.

But Aziraphale glances over. Crowley’s eyes are hidden behind those glasses, but all of his body language is tipped towards Aziraphale, a lean so sharp Aziraphale wonders how he hasn’t unbalanced his chair. And that really isn’t even a question, is it? Aziraphale takes a moment, lets his guilty eyes trace those lines of Crowley - his cheekbone, his jawline, the jut of the tendons in his neck - before he sinks backwards into his own chair and sighs, relaxing.

“Let me buy you a glass of your own wine,” Aziraphale offers, and he’s absolutely enthralled when Crowley’s mouth twists up into a smile, and the other man stands up, probably to go grab a special bottle and a special glass.

———

It’s actually _three_ glasses later when Aziraphale finally finds himself weaving back around to the actual point.

They’ve been through budbreak, the economy, Zinfandel versus Cabernet Sauvignon, a terribly long side discussion about curry, an intimately weighted discussion of the weather, a conversational trek through last year’s blockbuster movies, and a strange rant Crowley starts about skirts that sort of crumples when Aziraphale agrees with all his points, smiling - and mainly his brain has the _vision_ of Crowley in that black dress that night - and they dip into a different silence than the one before, but it’s far more comfortable, and Aziraphale just leans into it because if he’s ever going to say anything, now’s the time.

He’s realized something, Aziraphale has. He _likes_ Crowley.

“I’m terribly sorry,” he starts, “if it felt at all like I was misleading you. I don’t - I never mean to, anyway, but especially with the way you’ve been so...” Aziraphale trails off into a gesture, waving his hand around the already-familiar walls of _Ecdyses._ “So kind,” he says, and Crowley’s mouth wrinkles up in that overly-dramatic way he has when he’s about to argue. “Welcoming,” Aziraphale corrects, and he can tell Crowley’s rolling his eyes behind those dark glasses, but the other man lets it slide.

“Honestly, I still find it difficult to think of myself as anything near _famous,_ ” Aziraphale confesses. His eyes drop from Crowley’s to land on his wine glass, where he’s slowly swirling the Pinot around as a distraction. “Warlock and Gabriel both insist I am, you know, but I suppose I’ll probably always feel like a — a niche blogger, I guess, just making enough money on advertisements to get by.”

The noise Crowley makes is half-sputter, half-disbelief. “ _Niche blogger_ ,” he says, and his British accent is surprisingly harsh on the words. “Aziraphale, anyone who’s interested in wine trends and ratings knows who you are. I mean, not everyone out here follows the whole dog-and-pony show, no, but anyone who wants to get their wines known outside of the Valley has, you know, _weirdly sexy dreams_ about getting their wares onto one of your recommendation lists.”

“Dog and pony show,” Aziraphale murmurs, and when Crowley starts stammering again, he has to crack a smile. “Weirdly sexy dreams. You are so incredibly odd.”

“I’m also, ehh, you know, ngh, right.” The hand-waving is back, and Crowley seems to notice it rather abruptly, as he shoves himself backwards to drape over the seat again.

“The truth is,” Aziraphale continues, talking to his glass again. “I may not think I really _deserve_ to be famous, but the truth is that you’re absolutely right in that I do make a point of not using my blogging name in public.”

“I have noticed,” Crowley drawls, and it’s somewhat promising that the other man is teasing him a bit, isn’t it?

Aziraphale takes a long drink. Lilith is delicious; full of berries and richness, straightforward and accessible but with more hidden complexities than Ruth; she has a long trail, the taste a wine leaves in your mouth long after you’ve swallowed, and it’s all tannins and blackberry jam. Aziraphale’s aware his eyes are closed and he opens them to see Crowley watching him again, that odd fascination on his face.

“Well.” Aziraphale wiggles in his seat to get comfortable. “First of all, my dear, it just seems so… _pretentious._ Ugh! Incredibly ostentatious. I don’t ever want to come across like that.” _Like Gabriel,_ his mind provides, _or like Michael,_ but Crowley doesn’t know them and thus won’t understand just how weirdly slimy that kind of behavior makes him feel. “I’ve no desire to come across as some pompous arrogant idiot that leads with their own career as if it’s the thing most worth knowing about themselves.”

“Hmmm.” Crowley makes a noise in the back of his throat. “So what is the thing most worth knowing about yourself, A.Z. Fell?” It’s said lilting, a bit of a tease. Is Crowley flirting with him?

“Certainly not that I have a blog with FTA,” Aziraphale tells him, and maybe it’s a little bit flirtatious back, but he can easily blame that on the wine. “And that’s the second thing. They don’t like when we, well.” He gives a delicate cough. “My manager prefers when writers in his department refrain from fraternizing with the businesses they’re writing about.”

“Fraternizing?” Crowley hisses, and for a moment Aziraphale’s afraid he’s somehow offended the man — and then Crowley barks, once, a bright clap of laughter. “Is that their word or yours?”

Aziraphale purses his lips, because Crowley’s making fun of him, and it feels... _light_ , and easy. “My manager feels that being _overly friendly_ with the people we write about makes our reviews less …objective.” Which is ridiculous on many levels, but personally Aziraphale can’t help but feel a bit affronted that Gabriel can cry objectivity on one hand while rewriting Aziraphale’s reviews to be less negative on the other.

“Wait,” and now Crowley’s grinning, all teeth, as he leans in to refill Aziraphale’s glass. “Is there a chance of me sleeping my way to a star review?”

Oh, he’s either flirting or he’s incorrigibly teasing. Or both. Aziraphale simply raises and eyebrow and says, “Not with manners like that, dear,” and is rewarded with another bark of laughter.

“Oh _ho,_ you have standards.” Crowley’s smirk is nearly too much and Aziraphale rolls his eyes in response, taking a sip to hide his own smile. “Only the best for the big bloggers.”

“I _will_ dump this on your head,” Aziraphale tells him, sounding actually serious but aware that he isn’t hiding his mirth all that well.

Crowley ponders his own glass for a bit, rolling it gently, breathing in the aroma. Aziraphale wonders what he smells: his terroir? The history of the grape? The same mix of fruit and tannin that Aziraphale is so familiar with? He looks like he’s gathering up some thoughts, so Aziraphale stays silent for a few moments, to let him.

“So you have to see,” Crowley starts, “imagine you’re, eh, some middling picky angry sort of vineyard owner who yells at his vines as a _hobby,_ and some _gentleman—”_ This is followed by a gesture that Aziraphale assumes must encompass the bow-ties and sweater-vests, because what else could it mean? “Shows up to say some really beautiful words at you about your own wines, and you aren’t even sure you heard him right, and then, you know, you - nk - find out this guy’s one of a small selection of experts in your field whose work you actually _respect?_ ” Crowley’s hands blossom into the air, fingers sprawled at angles to his palms, the gesture encompassing everything and nothing. “You know this is surreal, right?”

“Ha,” says Aziraphale, and he reaches out to catch at Crowley’s hand as it comes to rest in front of him, touching it briefly. “Surreal? What’s surreal is that I walked in here as just myself, and you sat there and listened to me, thinking I was some, I don’t know, Joe Q. Public of wine blogs, and you — you heard me; you were interested. You gave me a chance.” He laughs, and it isn’t supposed to come out so self-deprecating, but Aziraphale blazes past that. “Instead of saying, no, someone like _you_ can’t really know _anything_ about wine, you brought me that glass of Magnificat Silver, and...” He shrugs, turning a bit inward.

Crowley stammers, and then says something like, “Urk - well - well I was right, wasn’t I? Again. Right again.”

There’s something charming about the way that Crowley’s hand sits butterfly-still on the table just because Aziraphale’s fingers are on it - he can tell that Crowley would be up, moving-jumping around like perpetual motion, and he lets his hand sink heavier over Crowley’s as if offering to ground him. “I expect two reactions when I meet someone in this business,” he tells Crowley, and it’s a little bit too sad. “Folks usually take one look at me and assume I can barely cross the road without help. And then they find out I’m A.Z. Fell, and suddenly they’re falling all over themselves to offer free wines and open up the Reserves and hanging on every word I say like I’m some sort of …I don’t know. As if they can flatter me all the way to the bankroll.”

Crowley’s quiet at this, and Aziraphale pulls his fingers away, afraid he has possibly overstayed his welcome on the back of Crowley’s hand.

“You did neither,” he says, trying to inject some lightness back into it. “Do you suppose that makes us friends?”

Crowley is very, very still, but there’s some muscle in his mouth - or throat - that’s working, as if he’s talking to himself, and then — suddenly his entire demeanor melts, and his hand turns over to grasp at Aziraphale’s in what _might_ be a handshake but is one of the most questionably intimate ones Aziraphale’s had in years if that’s the case, and Crowley’s mouth tips upwards again: and Aziraphale claims victory.

“Right,” Crowley says. “ _A Taste of Heaven_ wants to be my friend.” There’s a moment, and then the quick of his lips pull upwards into a giant teasing grin. “Can I call you Angel?”

Aziraphale groans and rubs his hands over his face, but he’s smiling as he does it.

———

“My point is,” Crowley slurs at him across the increasingly-intimate table, his face cupped in his hands as he looks at Aziraphale. “Dolphins. That’s my point.”

“Dolphins!” Aziraphale exclaims, taking another long drink of the Cup of Demons 2013 Crowley had produced from somewhere. Cup of Demons is _Ecdyses_ ’ third Zinfandel, and the 2015 and 2016 vintages are on sale, but Crowley had vanished for a hot moment and reappeared with this bottle, two glasses, and some sort of deep red matte lipstick that has the unfortunate effect of making Aziraphale stare at his mouth for far longer than necessary. He is absolutely in favor of folks of any range of gender wearing makeup - any internalized problem he might have had about it had been ground down after hiring Warlock, who loves eyeliner - it’s more that he doesn’t necessarily need _another_ reason to watch Crowley’s lips as he talks.

“Look,” says Crowley, shifting his entire upper body up and then backwards in the smooth type of motion Aziraphale might expect from a cat, or a snake. Crowley’s now flung backwards in his chair again, one arm over the back, all of his limbs displayed in gracefully chaotic angles. “Dolphins. Damn big brains. I’m telling you.”

“And I’m not arguing,” Aziraphale replies, charmed. “I’ve just never thought much about dolphins.”

“Ever seen ‘em?” Crowley picks up his glass, drinks it down, and picks up the empty bottle of Cup of Demons as if some miracle will fill it again. When - as expected - nothing happens, he hollers for Newt, who bustles over as fast as he can. It’s fair; the crowd has died down to three other tables, a couple tasters at the bar, and them.

“Newt, go downstairs into my area and grab anything that looks interesting.” Crowley waves a hand in the air, an odd wiggly gesture.

“Um,” says Newt.

Crowley’s handwaving turns into a universally-recognized shooing motion. “Just go, Newt, find us something good.” Aziraphale is tickled, watching this. He and Crowley haven’t necessarily had _that much_ to drink, but as always, there’s a pleasant haze humming round the periphery of his senses.

“The last time you said that I brought up a bottle from 2010 and you fired me on the spot,” Newt reminds Crowley.

“Well, I hired you back the next day, your girlfriend’s useless,” Crowley rambles at him. “Just grab anything with a label that says 2014, okay? Surprise us.”

Aziraphale can’t help but giggle as Newt flees from the table to deliver the summons into Anathema’s ear. The woman glances over at them, gives Crowley a thumbs down and Aziraphale a blinding smile, and then tugs Newt away towards what Aziraphale thinks are the stairs to the basement. Crowley, Aziraphale thinks, sticks his tongue out towards the bar, but he can’t be sure.

“Dolphins,” Aziraphale prompts, because he’s still waiting to hear how this rant ends.

“You can go swim with them, in Vallejo,” Crowley tells him, seriously. “Otherwise you have to go down to San Diego. Long drive, that. Did it once, though. Wanted to swim with something smarter than me.”

“I’m not much for swimming,” Aziraphale admits, with a gesture to his somewhat rounded shape. “I prefer to float, thanks.”

“Dolphins don’t care, angel.” Crowley drawls it, his smirk curving upwards. He’s used the nickname a couple times, and Aziraphale finds it absolutely horrid, mainly because he blushes _so_ when Crowley drops it into conversation. “Smart enough not to care. Whole big brains, dolphins.”

“Do you like the sea, then?”

Crowley’s made of a number of fidgety motions Aziraphale’s starting to learn; this one, where he throws himself back into his seat, Aziraphale _thinks_ is really only meant to be dramatic. Crowley himself is like the tide tonight: leaning in, then drawing back, all loose and casual, movements flowing like seawater. “You can’t live in California and not like the sea. You can’t live in _wine country_ and not like the sea.”

Aziraphale frowns playfully, because he currently lives just outside of Los Angeles, and while he has no _issue_ with the sea, he isn’t exactly a fan.

But to his surprise, Crowley goes on. “Can’t live here and not understand the sea, angel. It’s the fog from the ocean that comes in, in the mornings, keeps it cool and wet enough around here. Moisture sneaks up into the air, weaves through the valleys and hills. Gotta know it. That’s where the Zinfandel comes from. That’s why Pinot Noir exists here.”

Crowley seems to catch himself, immediately biting his tongue and trying to rearrange himself into a more casual spread. It’s intriguing, this dichotomy of Crowley: there’s a piece of a person who cares _desperately_ about his craft trapped under what Aziraphale is starting to think might be a fancy protective front, this dressed-in-black, sunglasses-wearing, fashion-forward dramatique. Any way, he doesn’t push, merely takes another sip and watches Crowley over the rim of his glass.

“So, yeah,” Crowley stammers, looking frantically back at the bar as if checking for Newt. “The ocean. Dolphins. Big fan, me.”

It’s so _endearing._ Aziraphale can only smile at him as a giant wave of fondness hits him solid, warming him from the chest down.

———

 _I’ve made a friend,_ Aziraphale writes later that evening. He isn’t sure whether this is for a post, or for the novel he’s supposed to be writing, or if it’s going to turn into one of the snippets he can’t manage to repurpose for anything solid. It happens, sometimes, words coming out from his fingers onto the page, things his brain has to say that may or may not end up saved anywhere except the corners of his mind.

_I’ve made a friend. He’s obnoxious and boisterous and terribly rude; he’s curious, and insatiable, and absolutely brilliant. He walks the lands of this California terroir like he owns it, and he seems like he murmurs it lullabies, night-songs to make the vines grow tall and terrible and overwhelming._

_The issue with making friends is what you might think: I’ve a blog, and commenters, and fans, and while I’m happy to grant a small bit of access to a great number of people, that isn’t a connection. If you cannot tell yet by my absolutely particular tastes in soup, my overwhelming dislike of appetizers, and the critical way I examine any wine that passes my mouth — I am a creature of opinions, of standing, of a great deal of knowing whatever I consider right and wrong._

_But I have made a friend here. He is arrogant and awful and amazing; he is descriptive and disclosing and deprecating. He knows what he is talking about, and yet he gifts it to me like a package: glowing and welcoming, a constellation of tastes he’s waiting for me to walk within, to describe with my own mouth and my own words._

_If you’ve never wandered outside your own comfort zone, you cannot know this, this strange connection of feeling when a stranger opens a door to you. And yet I put it here, that my readers might consider it, the next time they find themselves straying at the boundaries of their own knowledge._

Aziraphale blinks, and when he finds he’s still sitting in the uncomfortable chair in front of the rolled-desk in his suite, he scoffs at himself and heads for the bedroom, where his pyjamas wait.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SO! It's the Good Omens 30 year anniversary celebration, and (almost) the one year anniversary of the show that has taken over all of our lives, and ... well, I am trying to put something fun together for you all.
> 
> There have been some **really fun** questions about wines and wine tasting, and I'm trying to put together a little _'supplemental material'_ talking about how to get started on wine tasting! It's from Aziraphale's point of view, and has most of the main characters there, and I've been trying to stick to the #goc2020 prompts (although that's been a fail). It's gonna be some cute little outtakes where I use Aziraphale to tell you guys how _I_ fell into wines so far and so deep. It won't really be within the context of this story, but it's a fun little thing and it includes links to stuff y'all can use if this story ever makes you feel curiously thirsty~~
> 
> Come follow me on Tumblr ([sevdrag](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/sevdrag)) and yell about the lockdown video, ask about this fic, and enjoy whatever goodies I end up posting!
> 
> I LOVE YOU AND I LOVE YOUR COMMENTS. SIMPLY THE BEST.


	6. A Tasting Flight: Wines For A Lighter Palate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> May as well enjoy the "party house" while we have it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh my GOD you guys I didn't even get to the comments for last chapter I am sorry; I try to reply to everybody I just got swamped but know that I LOVE these comments and all your thoughts and lkdjfglkfghj I'm just so glad other people are enjoying this wine-soaked romp
> 
> I am in LOVE with all of YOU and appreciate you ALL please _MARRY ME_
> 
> SO this chapter is something a little different. It takes the time to bring in a couple other points of view and lighten things up a bit before we crash on forward. I don't expect it to bring additional plotlines - this is long enough - but it's a chance to see the place through other eyes. There will be, um, I think three "Tasting Flight" chapters overall? 
> 
> (potential triggers: there's a lot of happy drinking here and a mention of pot. just to cover my bases.)
> 
> Have fun!

Warlock Dowling is 32, single, bisexual, self-employed and working for a man who is equal parts wonderful and frustrating, and he happens to be having the time of his life.

College hadn’t prepared him to be here, sprawled out in a fucking hot tub under the goddamn stars in the middle of a freaking vineyard, with a motherfucking mansion to stay in and all the wine he can drink, courtesy of Food & Travel Adventures, their current employer. (Food & Travel Adventures! _Warlock has shaken hands with Chef James Porter._ Ridiculous!)

Sometimes Warlock wonders at how lucky he’s been to attach his own star to Az. It had started as a simple job - transcription, posting, blog management - back in uni when he was working towards his MBA and Az had needed help with the internet. But he’d seen something in Az’s writing, a sort of descriptive beauty that was unique, and after a market search Warlock had convinced Az to go bigger and better. The blog has been through four names and countless style changes, and over the years it’s ballooned to so many readers that they’re — they’re actually quite well off, even without the fantastic paid vacation.

Now he’s here, in fucking wine country. He’s 32, he has two degrees and a 401k, and he’s making bank basically to be a glorified designated driver to an old loveable twit who writes everything in a notebook to hunt-and-peck out later.

What the fuck is his _life._

Aziraphale seems uninterested in the hot tub, so Warlock has taken it upon himself to test it and make sure it’s working properly. You know, like any conscientious renter would do. He’s required to report any flaws to that Sergeant weirdo, right? Their renters wouldn’t want them to have a subpar stay, right? Right.

He’s sitting here in the nicest hot tub he’s ever seen. What the _fuck._ And Warlock’s seen his share of the rich and famous, what with his parents and all — he grew up surrounded by luxury. Apparently it means something different in California than it does anywhere else.

Warlock Dowling is absolutely aware that he’s unusual. Not many kids grow up the privileged asshole son of an American ambassador, born under some weird circumstances on British soil, then dragged back and forth between both countries as his father’s placement demanded it. Warlock had, he’s counted, been the new kid in the class approximately fourteen times until his mother had finally had enough and hired a tutor to get him an American GED. He’d fled them the first chance he got into University - back to the States; he’d really liked Northwestern - and then when his father had been reassigned for a two-year post in DC, he’d fled _back_ to England for another degree.

His family wasn’t _bad,_ per se. But they weren’t great either. His father was conservative and boorish, and an absolute bootlicker to boot; his mother was transparent and frivolous, although he’d never doubted that she did in some way care for him. Lost in this strange world, Warlock had raised himself. He knows he’s odd.

Years at uni had taught him that. He has a few friends, now, but scattered across the globe; he keeps the friendships that matter to him no matter where the person may be, and stays in touch online. Local acquaintances? He has some, sure, but they have to be special people for them to ever really learn what he’s like.

(It’s complicated, because Warlock himself isn’t really sure what he’s like — but he knows what he’s good at, and that’s navigating that odd and awkward disconnect between the elites of the world and what he jokingly likes to call the “plebes” in his head. Az is a plebe, for all that he’s well-off and somewhat famous now; the man could barely type his own name in less than five minutes before Warlock got to him. He’s also very, _very_ good at getting what he wants.

Maybe it doesn’t matter yet what Warlock’s really _like._ He’s got time to learn that, now, with everything established and his rotten parents at a satisfyingly reasonable distance. He’ll figure it out. He’s figured out everything else so far, hasn’t he?)

Warlock lets himself sink down until his head is resting on the edge of the tub, his entire body submerged, face tipped back. There really are some quite remarkable stars out here. It could be a very romantic interlude, if he had an opportunity, but he isn’t dying to share either. Warlock is mostly an introvert, a loner who loves his space, and he’s absolutely happy to sit here and finish this bottle of Rodney Strong Zinfandel. Az had _left it_ , which was odd behavior, but his loss is Warlock’s gain.

Still, Warlock thinks, it might be nice to have some friends over. He can be genially social when needed, and that odd crew from Az’s new favorite place had been kind enough to invite him out to that brewery. Maybe they’d enjoy a dip in the hot tub? Probably. Warlock’s been casually moving away from the elites for years, happy to be nothing but a plebe, but he still gets that zing of satisfaction at being able to offer something luxurious to his friends.

He sits up, reaching for his towel to dry his hands, and opens up Discord, where they’d all formed a group chat to make plans and make fun of their respective employers.

———

Crowley has read this article approximately thirty-two times. Well, no, _exactly_ thirty-two times, but he isn’t going to tell Anathema that she guessed right, because she gets really smug and Newt gets all excited as if he’s going to get something out of it later. They’re so in love it’s repulsive to Crowley, who tells himself at least weekly that it isn’t jealousy. There isn’t a romantic bone left in his body, no.

So the first maybe dozen times he’d read it, he’d still been picturing A. Z. Fell as some stranger he’d never met, who had slipped in and out of his tasting room like a ghost, and everything about the article had been at least a first cousin once removed. Then he’d been angry with Aziraphale for not explaining it, and the article had settled at an odd angle between his ribs, somehow every compliment also being insulting. And now?

Now Crowley has it up on his tablet for the thirty-third time - Anathema, go _fuck_ yourself - and he has Aziraphale’s voice reading it to him in his ear. _The winery itself is lovely in its simplicity: stark, yes, but in a comfortable way, the feeling that you get when someone tells you to give them your coat and sit down, like they’re going to take care of you._ And then, later: _The staff are friendly and knowledgeable — and while, yes, much of that is a California thing, you can really tell that anyone involved in the business behind that counter loves what they do._

And at the very end: _I’m terribly ashamed to admit I would commit an absolutely heinous crime for their cinnamon rolls. If you manage to get there while the kitchen is still open, ask for one, paired with either Ruth or Honey and Psalms (a Pinot Noir and Chardonnay, respectively). It’s an entire meal you won’t regret having. I’ll admit — I’ve done it thrice so far._

It makes Crowley laugh. And smile. And it makes him roil, inside, but not in a bad way — more in the way of somebody who maybe doesn’t know how to manage having any feeling stronger than ‘mild annoyance’, like Pepper tells him sometimes. The best way Crowley can describe it, without being _too_ transparent, is _warm._

He can hear Aziraphale’s voice saying he’d like to be Crowley’s friend.

A part of him is still internally yelling _THAT’S A.Z. FELL YOU ABSOLUTE WANKER!!,_ because of course Crowley reads all of the top wine bloggers occasionally, he has to stay trendy, doesn’t he? And there’s another part that’s simultaneously yelling _A.Z. FELL WANTS TO BE YOUR FRIEND, DON’T FUCK THIS UP, ANTHONY,_ but the thing is — talking with Aziraphale is just. It’s just easy?

Plus. Aziraphale probably deserves an actual _friend_ , based on how he sounded; somebody who isn’t going to be all that shell-shocked knowing the man they’re drinking with has a huge blog with an incredible amount of followers and his fingertips on the pulse of the Food and Travel Adventures Network, all rights incorporated and so on. (What kind of people is he meeting, Crowley wonders. So far the industry sounds rotten. Good thing _Ecdyses_ never got big.)

Crowley just has to be, you know, not intimidated. Good thing he’s got years of practice pretending absolutely nothing fazes him.

———

Adam’s just typing a response into his phone when Pepper comes in and collapses in the chair on the other side of her desk, her own phone in hand. Adam can hear as his and hers chime simultaneously, and he manages to send his message off before looking up, laughing as he does.

“Wanker,” Pepper breathes, her thumbs hammering as she gets in whatever last word she’s trying to get.

“So party at Warlock’s,” Adam says, leaning back in his chair. “Seems fun.”

The grin Pepper gives him is one Adam recognizes, though, and he’s already groaning as Pepper announces, “I’mma hit that.”

“Pepper, no,” Adam says, weakly.

“Pepper, _yes._ ” She folds her arms over her chest and gives him a challenging look.

(Pepper was born Pippin Galadriel Moonchild Jonathan Sterling, and she has happily jettisoned most of her entirely-hippie upbringing, save the joyful and casual approach to sex. Adam guesses she’s probably hooked up with all of The Them at some point — but the glorious thing about Pepper is also that she’s absolutely, perfectly, orgasmically happy to live on her own without any commitment and just enjoy the physical bits as they happen. Honestly, Adam should have seen this coming.)

“I mean, Pepper yes, seems like the guy deserves a good time,” Adam tells her, and means it. He had just... he’d thought Warlock was kind of cute, himself, although he’d never admit it to Pepper — not now, anyway. “Just don’t do it when we’re all there, I’ll make fun of you for weeks.”

Pepper sniffs. “I have standards.”

“Plus,” Adam adds, “Brian.”

Her eyes roll so far back into her head Adam feels like she can see into space. “Oh, I haven’t forgotten.”

Brian Raymond Brown had grown up the clumsiest member of their little gang of friends, but had reached adulthood with a comfort and confidence no one had expected. Brian’s the one of them that pulls pranks, makes jokes, and occasionally invades their apartments to make casseroles and then leave like some ridiculous reverse robbery. Brian’s become their glue.

Even though he has adopted the truly annoying habit of interfering any time one of them is trying to get laid with the most ridiculous questions he can think of. It’s a _thing_ , at this point. He has an entire _routine_ he does when they’re out at bars or clubs. Honestly, while it’s irritating in the moment, it’s so funny afterwards that they can’t really ask Brian to stop it. He’s perfect.

“We’ll have to make it Sunday,” Adam tells her. On Sundays, _Ecdyses_ closes early, because no one has the patience to do this kind of shit forever. “I don’t want to absolutely leave Crowley alone.”

“No, god no,” Pepper says, her eyes going wide. “He’ll give away thirty bottles of Reserve and then accidentally burn his house down.”

Adam laughs. While they do still do business with other vineyards and wineries - The Them is a consulting and processing service, available to anyone they have time for - they’re all oddly fond of Crowley and _Ecdyses._ Adam isn’t the only one who has wondered, four or five glasses in, whether Crowley would be interested in letting them invest some of their money and becoming full-time... well, partners isn’t a great word when there’s one of Crowley and four of Them, but there has to be a term that’ll cover it. But Crowley’s so oddly protective of it, stammering and changing the subject every single time a topic gets within a five-mile radius, so they haven’t yet asked.

Either way, they’ve all agreed that _Ecdyses_ is their home base - which is great, cause Adam knows they can’t afford any other sort of office space - and Crowley seems content to keep them close, the absolute shitbrain. Adam adores Crowley to the point of terrible nicknames. It’s that bad.

“Right,” he tells Pepper. “Toss it up, I have a good drinking meme,” and he’s lost searching through the _BULLSHIT_ folder in his camera roll. Good thing they don’t really have hours, because right now they’re both definitely off the clock.

———

Aziraphale greets all of Warlock’s new friends at the door, because at least _he_ has manners; Warlock’s in the greatroom (the one that’s ostensibly a living room) setting up some kind of game console, and he hollers when the doorbell rings, but Aziraphale was raised to be a _host_ and let people in by hand and show them where they’re going.

He finds it quite nice that Warlock’s having friends in. It’s the little team from Crowley’s winery, that nice group that seems to manage the business bits behind the counter. The house is certainly large enough, and he’s happy to pass them all back into the giant greatroom, where Warlock has set up some sort of complicated game system on the frankly obscene flat television, with snacks and a good number of pillows. Aziraphale notes The Them are carrying an absurd number of bottles of wine, although he understands when Wensleydale stops and presses two - no, three - of them into Aziraphale’s hands.

“Crowley wouldn’t let us leave without something for you,” the young man says, and Aziraphale smiles, feeling himself flush.

“That’s too kind,” he says, wrestling to set the bottles down on the nearest flat surface. (There are enough of them, in this absurd house, anyway.) Crowley’s sent the Chardonnay, and two Zinfandels, one of them with a label from somewhere Aziraphale’s never seen before. “Quite generous.”

“He says you have to drink all three tonight,” Pepper tells him with a smirk as she walks past.

“Good heavens,” Aziraphale says, laughing.

“We have our own,” says Adam, who comes to offer one of those clapping-hand handshakes young folks prefer these days. “Unless you’re coming to join us?”

He can hear Warlock laughing, and it makes him smile, although he’s shaking his head. “No, thank you, I’m off to do a little bit of wordcraft.”

“Wordcraft,” Warlock chortles, and Aziraphale looks around for something to throw at him.

He allows the group to bustle around the kitchen. They’re all of an age, at least within five years or so in either direction, and it’s comforting to watch four people who know each other so well bring Warlock into their world so seamlessly. Aziraphale is an observer, a taster, a watcher; he can see, already, how easily these four are weaving around Warlock’s particular shape. Aziraphale’s well aware his assistant is an odd chap, but he thinks this will go well, anyway.

As the cluster of laughter and noise moves away into the greatroom, Aziraphale slips into the kitchen, carrying the bottles. He decides to open the bottle of Adam and Eve, and watches as it pours happily into the glass. It’s the color of blackberries, the way burgundy looks at midnight: it’s lovely.

He’s decided to write tonight, so Aziraphale settles in at the rolltop desk in his bedroom suite. (He brings the bottle, of course. He won’t really be in the mood for a trip to the kitchen every time he needs a top-off.) The suite is really more like a small apartment; the sitting room is cozy, a plush couch in the style of a chaise lounge and a broad chair-and-a-half in addition to the desk’s ornate leather chair. There’s a matching stiff chair in the corner, but Aziraphale likes to spread out. There’s even a telly - nowhere near as large as the one Warlock’s using, but sufficient - positioned so that a couple could sit on the couch together and watch.

It’s rather lovely. It’s a perfect place for Aziraphale to settle in, with his tablet set up and ready, his notebook next to his glass of wine, and his phone blinking that he has a message.

“Oh!” Not many people message Aziraphale; it’s probably because Aziraphale doesn’t message a lot of people.

_**Crowley: hows the party house** _

Well. Isn’t that nice of him. Aziraphale taps out a response.

_Splendid so far. I’m expecting it to be a bit rowdy later; I’ve told Warlock I’ll be disappointed if it doesn’t end in a pillow fight. Thank you for the wine, by the way. You didn’t have to._

_**you’ll need it if they get rowdy. trust me, angel.** _

_You truly don’t have to type that out in a message, you know._

_**oh but i do. Angel.** _

Aziraphale huffs, but he’s blushing, and smiling. It’s a ridiculous nickname, but Crowley hasn’t let up yet, and Aziraphale ... he likes having something between them, a little joke, even if it’s something embarrassing on his part.

_So is the winery nice and quiet tonight?_

_**we close early Sunday. and open late Monday. so yeah, its quiet** _

_Oh, I didn’t realize. Are you there by yourself?_

_**y u p** _

Aziraphale, despite the sudden rush of heat in his stomach that’s either nerves or excitement (or both), only hesitates a moment before sending a response.

_That seems lonely. Would you like to come up? The ‘party house’, as you said, is certainly large enough for two separate parties._

_**I mean** _

**_sure Id love to come up but i wasnt fishing for an invite or anything_ **

**_just wanted to see how you were doing with the horde_ **

Well. _I’d love to come up_ brings even more color to Aziraphale’s cheeks. What is he going to _do_ with this terrible interest he seems to have in Crowley?

Aziraphale knows that the image he projects - especially the image Gabriel wants him to project - is stuffy, trim, a bit of a snob, but he’s had his share of dalliances over the years as well — most of them ending up burning him after an emotional whirlwind, because Aziraphale _invests,_ and that can burn worse than anything. He realizes he isn’t much of a prize, himself, not anymore; and most of the recent interest he’s had to deal with have been people looking to ...flatter him up, really, once they learn who he is and where he posts.

And there’s never been anyone like Crowley: sleek, flash, beautiful Crowley, all slim lines and attitude. No one like that will ever be interested in A.Z. Fell, let alone the real Aziraphale underneath.

But that doesn’t mean he can’t cultivate a nice friendship out of it all. He just has to rein in this little ...fascination.

_Oh, do come up if you like. You did send three bottles of wine. Here’s the address._

_Or not — however you like._

The response doesn’t come immediately, and Aziraphale sets his mobile down on the desk and goes about opening up his blog drafter on his tablet. Crowley probably has better things to do with his only night off. The winery seems to have a blistering schedule, from what Aziraphale can tell. Poor man probably only wants to put his feet up and doze off in front of some... what sort of show would someone like Crowley watch? Some kind of elite rock video, or one of those cutting-edge science fiction fantasy shows that’s far too clever for Aziraphale, probably.

He pulls up his latest blog entry. He’s trying to put together a post about easy meals in this part of California — many of the wineries they’ve been to offer local food as well: homemade pasta and marinara, or soups in take-home plastic tureens, and he’s been trying to figure out how to guide readers to pairing a wine with whatever they’ve picked up. It’s been a bit tricky, though, because he’s trying to create general guidelines, and that’s always hard to do.

He jumps a bit when the phone chimes again.

_**right. be there in 20. I’ll bring some wine** _

The smile on Aziraphale’s face probably looks rather foolish, but as he’s currently typing out a response rather than looking in a mirror, he’s going to pretend it doesn’t.

———

Warlock isn’t much for anxiety. He had most of that emotional reaction bullshit crushed at an early age by his overly-masculine father, who probably thought he was raising an All-American Boy Child, but ended up being so over-the-top embarrassing in public that Warlock had just quickly grown to not give a fuck about a lot of things. It isn’t necessarily anxiety he’s feeling at the moment, then, cause it doesn’t matter much to him: he’d like the night to go well, but if he doesn’t, it isn’t like they have to hang out again. Maybe it’s excitement.

He’s drinking a Pinot Noir, as are Pepper and Adam. Wensleydale has a Pinot Grigio, and Brian brought Boones’ Farm, because Brian is a weirdo. He thinks it’s hilarious, though, and that’s enough for Warlock; he kind of likes Brian’s terrible, not-giving-a-single-fuck style.

Warlock has set up _Mario Party_ on the screen as a starting point, because he’d seen Brian and Adam playing it at _Ecdyses_ the last time they’d stopped in. He only has three controllers, so they’ll have to rotate, but actually that eliminates a lot of the competitiveness and should make it a little more fun.

“This house is wicked,” Adam says. He’s sitting on the floor leaning up against the arm of the couch; Warlock’s sprawled into that couch corner, one leg on the floor and one tucked up. Pepper’s in the middle, already having claimed a controller, and Wensleydale is at the other end. Brian has commandeered the most ridiculous looking chair in the room - what they’ve already dubbed the Gratuitous Recliner - and is making pronouncements like a king as he blows air over the top of his bottle of Boones’ Farm.

“Yeah.” Warlock shrugs. “I dunno. We didn’t even pick it. Came with the job.”

“We are in the wrong business,” Brian decrees from the Gratuitous Recliner. It’s followed by three hoots.

“Brian, don’t be a wanker,” Pepper tells him. He responds by hooting over the top of the bottle to the tune of Jingle Bells, and Pepper sticks her tongue out at him.

“So what is it, exactly, that you do?” Wensleydale’s tucked up into the other corner of the couch, sitting as neatly as Az does, legs nicely crossed and back up straight. “I thought I understood it, but within this context, I’m actually not quite sure I do.”

“Nah,” Warlock says, stretching out further. “It’s Zira’s first big gig since he went pro, and they’re falling all over themselves to impress both of us so that I’ll sign away more rights when the contract’s up in a year. This is normal.”

“This,” Pepper says, articulating every syllable, “is not _normal._ ” Her accent pulls the last word out, a bit, an annunciation without accusing.

Warlock refrains from saying that he’s stayed at more than one place this fancy; he’s mentioned his parents, but he really, _really_ doesn’t want to get into it. “Okay, no, _this_ isn’t normal, but based on my research this is what usually happens when big corporations think they’ve found their next cash cow.”

“Cash cow,” Brian repeats, trying to pronounce the words over the top of the bottle so that they hoot. It’s a failure.

“That’s not a nice thing to call your boss,” Pepper says, with some reproach in her voice.

“Hey, again, it’s not me,” Warlock tells her. “This is the language they use. Sharks. This is part of my job, see, keeping that kind of thing _away_ from Aziraphale.”

Pepper’s eyes go fascinatingly wide. “Oh, so it’s gossip, then.”

He shrugs. “Of a sort.”

Adam turns about on the floor so that he’s looking up at Warlock through his messy, curly fringe. “You have to tell us now,” he announces, raising an eyebrow at Warlock as well. Adam’s face is incredibly expressive; his hair is a disaster - from what Warlock has heard it doesn’t matter what he does, it seems to immediately grow itself out into a mess again - but his eyes are sharp, an unusually bright blue-green.

Warlock drinks. At this point he knows very well how to toe the lines of confidentiality agreements and non-disclosures: this is his _business,_ his work, and no one would guess it from looking at him because he _likes_ to be underestimated. Warlock’s upbringing taught him a sense of pride and he knows he’s good at what he does.

“Well,” he starts, but he pitches his voice quieter than before. Az doesn’t know how these meetings go. Az doesn’t need to know. Az barely has a business bone in his body. “First off? Az’s boss is a real fuckin’ bastard.”

Brian whistles and Pepper barks out a laugh. “Don’t hold back,” she says, “tell us how you really feel.”

“Compare,” Warlock says, thinking fast. “Compare the bluntness of Chris Traeger with the absolutely unaware unintentional assholishness of Michael Scott, make it all entirely evil as fuck, then turn it up to eleven.”

“Actually, I have no idea what that means,” says Wensleydale, taking another heavy drink.

“American telly,” Adam tells him. Wensleydale is _dramatically_ British, possibly even more so than Az.

“This guy,” Warlock continues. “He’ll look me in the face and say things like, ‘Aziraphale needs to be marketable, so can you talk to him about the clothes?’ Or, like...” He pauses, trying to remember. “Like, ‘This could be our next big cash cow, so we just need to keep him in line.’ Shit like that. The rest of it is buzzwords and motivational statements. He once sent me an email that only said _DO YOUR BEST_ above a picture of a golden retriever puppy, and I think it was actually sincere.”

“That sounds awful,” says Pepper, leaning a bit towards him on the couch.

Warlock shrugs. “It’s words. I know what Zira’s worth, and I make sure we get our due. ‘S long as the shitstain never says anything to Az’s face, I don’t give a fuck what he says in private.”

“Isn’t that bad for his image, though?” Wensleydale asks. “You know, behind the scenes?”

“What, Aziraphale’s image, or Gabriel’s?”

Wensleydale considers, then shrugs. “Both, really.”

Warlock grins. “I’ve studied the last five major food or wine bloggers FTA took on. This always happens. After a six to twelve month blog trial, the blogger gets shipped to some location that has a culinary relation to their main topic, and _bam,_ a year later their first book hits the shelves. Cookbooks, novels, memoirs — something comes out. FTA capitalizes on it, gauges the success, and moves on. The successful ones stay with the company; the other folks don’t.” He drags his glass back up to his mouth and smirks in that way he’s learnt to when Gabriel is at the other end of the table. “I intend to stay on the top of this game, thank you _very much._ ”

“That seems a bit...” Pepper is very obviously struggling for a word that won’t launch one of her nuclear rants. Luckily, she’s interrupted when the doorbell rings, twice in quick succession.

Warlock looks around, very obviously counting the members of the room - Adam chuckles - and says, “Well, that’s odd.”

The door opens, and Crowley walks in, a bag over his shoulder that seems to hold another three bottles of wine along with some other goodies.

“Oh, god, boss.” Pepper rolls her eyes. “I don’t like seeing you on _workdays,_ do I have to see you on my day off?”

Crowley shuts the door, and then Aziraphale walks out of the master suite, hands clasped in front of him, smiling. “Here you are, then,” he says, and Warlock watches the blush on Aziraphale’s cheeks as Crowley smirks and leans against the doorframe.

“The hell,” Adam murmurs, and Warlock glances down. They share a look of mutual suspicion, grinning at each other.

“You haven’t seen me,” Crowley tells them. “I was never here.”

Aziraphale pauses to grab a handful of wine glasses and an opener out of the kitchen, and the two men vanish back into the master suite. Aziraphale pointedly closes the door.

Warlock notes that The Them are all exchanging excited glances around. “What on earth,” Brian says eventually, throwing his hands in the air.

“Sshh,” Pepper hisses. “They’ll _hear_. Don’t ruin it _this_ early.”

Warlock sits for a bit, his eyes on that closed door. It isn’t that he’s judging the behavior at all — it’s none of his business, and anyway, in his role as support staff he often feels like Az needs to go get laid, even though he knows that with all of Az’s quirks it’s never an easy path. And he _likes_ Crowley, as much as he knows the man. He knows that his friends are making assumptions, but Warlock knows Az can appreciate a good casual conversation and that nothing has to mean anything more. He’s rather proud, really; Az deserves some friends, too.

Then he picks up his controller and waves it. “Right, leave them well enough alone for now. Who am I playing first round?”

———

Crowley’s glad he has his glasses on, because his eyes have been wide from the second he pulled up to this fucking house.

Yes. He knows this is A.Z. Fell. He doesn’t need any more _fucking_ reminders. But this isn’t a house, or a villa. It’s a goddamn mansion.

Crowley parks his Bentley off to the side — on the grass, away from what he recognizes as Adam’s CRV and Brian’s garbage Focus, and _holy hell is that a fucking Benz._ Wow. He’s glad he wore his moccasins, coffee-black soft leather, lined with burgundy, second most expensive pair of shoes he owns. Crowley reminds himself he’s walking on good money — and then reminds himself a second time that he doesn’t give a shit. Shouldn’t give a shit. Whatever.

He rings the doorbell twice just to be obnoxious, and lets himself in, because Aziraphale had said to. The kids are all in the giant room that’s across the foyer, with a television that might be as tall as Pepper, and they’re gaping; Crowley makes some kind of joke, and then Aziraphale emerges from another room to gather up some glasses, gather up Crowley’s anxious self, and take them all back behind the safety of a closed door.

Crowley makes a mental note to fire Pepper on Monday, for fun and revenge.

Aziraphale’s talking and Crowley has to make a mental effort to listen in. “—my dear boy, I just wanted to leave them all on their own for a while. No, um, supervision - that’s certainly the wrong word, but - no bosses present, how about that. No pressure to stay work-appropriate. These rooms are perfectly lovely, in my opinion, do make yourself at home.”

Crowley looks around, jerked back into his own brain. This looks like a central living room, really. There’s a couch that’s maybe seen better days, and a giant cushy chair, along with an antique-looking desk that Aziraphale - of course - has set up with his tablet and notebook.

“This is nice,” he says, finally, and heads over to a little table by the door where he can start to empty his bag. “I would say this is _decadent,_ but you let me see the rest of the house first, and _standards_ were set, angel.”

“Oh, good Lord,” Aziraphale mutters. He sets the glasses down at the desk and shuts his tablet, stacking the notebook and pen on top before taking a long drink of whatever’s in his glass now. “I certainly didn’t choose this monstrosity, Crowley, I’ll have none of that.”

“Well, I’ll have some of that,” Crowley says, jerking his chin towards the bottle of Adam and Eve he recognizes that’s sitting on the desk, already open. “It’s a nice place. Very casual. Appropriate.”

He can hear Aziraphale’s little sigh as the other man rolls his eyes. “Really, Crowley, my manager selected this place. I’m assuming he wanted to show off.” Aziraphale picks up the bottle, fills a hearty glass, hands it over to Crowley. “This entire space, here, this is just the master suite. Once Warlock’s friends are distracted I’ll give you the whole tour. It’s positively ridiculous.”

Crowley takes the glass, his fingers brushing against Aziraphale’s for a moment on purpose. “Cheers, angel,” he says. “To luxury.”

Aziraphale’s gaze flicks over to him, then to the glasses, then back to Crowley for a bare fraction of a second before Aziraphale raises his own glass to gently clink against Crowley’s. “I suppose,” he says, and it sounds weary and fond over the bell tone of the glassware.

Crowley stalks his way over to the couch and flings himself into a corner, draping an arm over the back and letting his legs extend outwards with a stretch. From this vantage point he can take in a bit of the next room, which — appears to be Aziraphale’s bedroom. He can see the corner of a four-poster, comforter piled up at the edge, unmade. There’s a pale blue cardigan thrown over the end of the bed. He jerks his head around, regretting almost immediately; this little sitting room is large enough that he hadn’t necessarily realized how, well, _intimate_ the setting was until he’d glanced over.

Aziraphale catches the flush that fills his cheeks, but whether intentional or not, he misreads it. “Yes, these are my rooms,” he tells Crowley, sounding a bit weary about it. “They basically pushed me in here, really, and, well.” Aziraphale settles himself into the broadened chair across from Crowley, and does a sensuous little wiggle as he settles in. “It’s more than I was expecting, but I’m certainly not going to say no, am I?”

“No,” Crowley says absently. He’s watching Aziraphale settle deeper into that cushy chair. Aziraphale’s so attractively _broad;_ Crowley has discovered a deep-seated part of him, never before seen, that really just wants to drape his own thin limbs over that breadth of self and have a _nap._ He wants to _burrow in._ It certainly isn’t fair to think this way and he doesn’t _like_ that he is, no, it feels entirely intrusive; but this small new clamoring part of his consciousness is telling Crowley he could probably go straddle Aziraphale’s lap and they’d both fit.

Brains are stupid. Crowley drinks instead.

“I can show you the master bath,” Aziraphale offers, his eyes bright with humor. “I swear the tub was built for six.”

And no, Crowley absolutely does not need to walk through Aziraphale’s _bedroom_ to look at Aziraphale’s _bathtub_ , nope, not at the moment. “Relax, angel,” he says instead, lifting his glass. “Due time, and all. We’ve got all night, right?”

Aziraphale’s cheeks pink up at that, but to Crowley’s surprise, he just glances over through those pale eyelashes and says, “More or less,” and then takes a long drink.

Crowley loves all his Zinfandels. Obviously Apocalypse is his true favorite - those old vines are the heart of his place - but his land grows some great Zin. Especially when he starts comparing around. He isn’t alone, no - he can identify at least six other vineyards that make a Zin he considers comparable - but given that, there are at least twenty others who either don’t tend it right, or don’t make it right, or don’t bottle it right or something. He’s no Robert Parker himself, but Crowley does his research, and in general the experts agree with him.

He glances up from the glass to see Aziraphale watching him. There’s a note of concern on his lovely face, a line of tension between his eyebrows. “What?” Crowley asks.

“Oh,” Aziraphale says, setting his glass down and pinching at his nose. “I’ve just realized how incredibly awkward it is for me to tell you to just consider me an average bloke, and then invite you over to this - mansion - that my _patron_ has rented out for me.” He blinks, but Crowley’s still laid flat over his use of the word _patron_ , so Aziraphale continues. “And oh, maybe I’m just overthinking this - I’m so sorry, I’m terribly awkward at the best of times - I just had to say _something._ ”

“Oh, angel,” Crowley drawls eventually. Aziraphale flustered is a vision: it’s like a bouquet of flowers, built in pink and rose, color on his cheeks and the rush of blood to a bitten lip. “Right, then. Are you looking to get the awkwardness over with?”

“I, ah,” Aziraphale stammers, but he sits up straight in his chair and turns his eyes to Crowley. “May as well, my dear.”

The _my dear_ nearly flusters Crowley as much as the _patron_ had, but he hangs on. “Right. So who’ve you met, anyway? What’s Heidi Barrett really like? Do you have Jancis Robinson on speed dial?”

“Oh, you’re terrible,” Aziraphale tells him, but his face lights up. “I did spend an event with Kasy Maynard, a few years back. Lovely young lady.”

“Oh, good lord,” Crowley says, laughing. “And what was she like?”

Aziraphale giggles, charmingly, into his glass. “As you’d expect,” he tells Crowley. “Stoned. Delightfully stoned.”

———

“Penalty shot!” Adam yells, from where he’s hanging upside-down on the couch: legs tucked over the back, head hanging off the seat, controller in his hands as he attempts to play Mario Kart completely flipped over.

“Nope,” Pepper says, elbowing him; she’s also upside-down, as is Brian, hanging from the Gratuitous Recliner. Wensleydale, on Pepper’s other side, is right-side up, because he’s wearing the awkward crown they built out of the strange fashion magazines strewn about the greatroom, and he’s declared they have to give him a handicap. The truth is that Wensleydale is absolute rubbish at games, and even upside-down, Brian’s giving him a run for his money.

Adam attempts to maneuver a hard turn but hits his thumb in the wrong direction and lets out a string of curses as he attempts to correct. The wine’s going to his head; his entire sense of direction is turned upside-down, and Pepper smells _really good_ tonight and it’s messing with his backbrain.

“Fuck,” she yells, as Adam careens his Kart into hers; it’s entirely accidental, but he elbows her back and pretends it was intentional.

Warlock is yelling from the kitchen. “I heard somebody say penalty shots,” he calls, and this time Brian says a very garbled _Fuck_ from the armchair.

“Actually, not the Cuervo,” Wensleydale says, primly, as he tucks his Kart past Pepper’s and into first place. He uncrosses his legs, then crosses them in the opposite direction. “I think it’s haunted.”

“I’ll Cuervo you,” says Brian, and falls out of the Gratuitous Recliner.

A few minutes later they’re all seated right-side up around the room, mostly because Warlock has brought out something bright blue in five shot glasses. Warlock’s calling it the creepershark, which doesn’t make any sense, but he has promised there’s no Cuervo there. To Adam’s delight, Warlock has tucked himself up against the arm of the couch so that his hair occasionally brushes Adam’s knee as he moves and gestures.

Warlock Dowling drunk is oddly beautiful; his hair’s down, winding lazily around his shoulders, and his face is lit up with all of the attention he usually holds in reserve for Aziraphale’s benefit. His shoulders are slouched and his tee has a print of some Avenger across it and Adam may have to fight Pepper because Warlock’s real pretty like this.

Then again, Pepper keeps giving him that subtle look she deals out through her eyelashes as if Adam’s three steps behind the real game. Which is as insulting as it is funny, because when they were younger, it was always _Adam’s_ job to keep everyone entertained. He gives her his own look, half-lidded eyes and a raised eyebrow, and she snorts into her glass of wine.

“Bottoms up,” says Warlock, raising his bright-blue shot glass, and — oh, he rests his elbow across Adam’s knee as he rises up, clinking the tiny thing first against Pepper, then Wensleydale, then turning into Adam to clink again. Brian refuses to give up The Recliner, but he’s raising his own glass and making terrible kissy noises, and Adam lifts the glass up to his lips and swallows it down.

It’s sweet and tart: probably vodka, and one of those tropical-tasting things Adam can’t remember the name of; he can taste something like alcoholic oranges too. It goes down easily. Warlock had assured them all before that the house was big enough to give everyone their own bed, and since then they’ve been drinking like it; somehow knowing that Crowley’s also here behind that door has changed the environment a bit. They’re all a bit looser than expected, for whatever reason.

“I think I’m too dumb to play any more,” Brian announces, turning immediately to Wensleydale with a finger pointed; “ _Don’t_ say it,” he continues, and Wensleydale just smiles and downs his bright blue shot.

“I can put something on,” Warlock says. “Got Netflix and Hulu on this thing.”

“Christ,” says Pepper, rolling her eyes, but she slouches into Adam and, well, that’s nice too. “Name something you don’t have.”

“A life,” says Brian.

“A sports car,” Adam adds.

“Yo, it’s a fuckin’ Benz,” Warlock tells him, grinning lazily. He really is very American.

“A butler.” Pepper does her own shot primly, although she makes a face and chases it with the Pinot Noir they’d snagged from the cabinets. “Or a single taste bud, _God,_ Warlock, that’s repulsive.”

“Didn’t have to do it,” Warlock points out, now using his controller to maneuver around on the screen until Netflix pops up. “Plenty of choice in the kitchen.”

“You sure we can stay over, mate?” Brian asks from where he’s slouched into the Gratuitous Recliner, slid so far down in the seat Adam can’t tell how the hell he hasn’t crumpled to the floor.

Warlock gestures around the room. “There’s enough furniture _here_ for you all, not even regarding the second floor. Relax, mate, unless you’ve got work in the morning or something.”

“The boss _is_ actually here.” Wensleydale jerks his chin towards the master bedroom, and his smile goes very, very innocent. “We’ll all probably be late tomorrow.”

Warlock frowns, but it isn’t upset, merely confused. “Crowley won’t mind?”

“Nath and Newt’ll take care of it,” Adam tells him.

“Besides,” Brian adds, glancing over. “Have we ever known Crowley to _not_ tie one on with somebody he likes?”

Wensleydale’s snort is one of the funniest noises Adam has ever heard. “Actually... I think you’re right.”

“Oh my god,” Warlock says, sitting up straight and suddenly horrified. “Is this _actually_ a _booty call._ I’m going to fire Aziraphale myself.”

“Isn’t he your boss?” Wensleydale points out mildly.

Pepper collapses into Adam’s side, laughing so hard she can’t breathe and she’s making that delicate snorting noise she does when she absolutely can’t help herself. Warlock looks at her, reaches out to tap at her cheek, and Pepper just laughs harder.

“What’s so funny?”

“Crowley has absolutely no game,” Adam tells Warlock, very seriously. “Your Aziraphale could be waiting in there wearing a chemise and socks and Crowley would just assume that was his pajamas and open a bottle of wine.”

“Crowley has negative game,” Brian adds, and Pepper laughs harder. “He literally gets in his own way and ends up in a tangle on the floor.”

“This is the farthest from a booty call you can get,” Wensleydale says with a sense of finality. “Now see if they’re still playing _The Haunting of Hill House._ I’m in the mood for something spooky.”

———

Aziraphale has been laughing so hard his stomach hurts.

The awkwardness he’d expected - that awful tension in the air whenever someone finds out he’s working with _The_ Food and Travel Adventures network (conglomerate? He’ll have to ask Warlock) - never showed up. There was a bit of a moment when Crowley started asking about other _notorious_ wine and food tasters, but as it turns out, he’s more interested in the tawdry gossip than he is about his own business.

It shouldn’t be as refreshing as it is. Aziraphale resolves that, later - once Crowley’s distinctly distracting personality has gone and left him room to think - he’s going to ponder on why he’s so surprised. He didn’t think he was _that_ far gone into the world of review-trading and advertisements and all of this promoting-your-own-brand nonsense, so why is he so surprised that Crowley just wants to drink and make fun of Kasy Maynard’s taste in weed? (Crowley is incorrect, by the way. Aziraphale had joined the young woman for a shared pipe of Silver Haze and it had been _exquisite.)_

Well. For _whatever_ reason, Crowley is as charming as he is funny, and they’ve already knocked back two of the bottles over the course of the evening and while Aziraphale is _built_ to hold his alcohol, he can tell he’s flushing slightly.

And why not? Crowley’s a collection of sticks and angles, piled loosely on the couch, gesturing wildly with one hand while the other holds his wine glass, safely cupped in those long fingers. Aziraphale can’t stop _looking._ Crowley’s a treat to the eye, really, even if he dresses like he knows it. His trousers may have been painted on, his grey t-shirt is taut across a slender chest, and his jacket’s cut high enough to show off the angles of a waist Aziraphale wouldn’t mind getting his hands on.

Oh, but this is inappropriate. Crowley’s not here to be ... _eye candy._ Aziraphale mentally berates himself, and tries to recover himself enough to ask Crowley what he’d like to open next.

Yet there’s a question nibbling at the edges of his mind, and it must have shown across his face, because Crowley takes a long sip and then waves his hand, drawling, “Spit it out, go ahead.”

“Oh, it’s nothing,” Aziraphale says in the tone of voice he inadvertently uses when it is absolutely _not_ nothing but he’d rather it were to save himself the embarrassment.

“It’s on your face,” Crowley points out, as if it’s a spot of chocolate Aziraphale has, stuck to his lip.

“I just want to — I’m wondering something, but I’m not entirely sure how to politely ask without being... presumptuous?”

Crowley’s eyebrows do something odd and Aziraphale’s sure he’s making some sort of interesting face beneath those sunglasses. “Just say it, angel.”

“Oh, I want to ask about your glasses.” It all comes out in a rush, because really, Aziraphale’s been thinking about this for quite some time, but he doesn’t know how to phrase it in a way that isn’t invasive or rude. “I’m just not sure how to phrase it politely, and I don’t want to be too intrusive.”

Crowley leans back at that, but his mouth is contemplative; Aziraphale counts it as a good sign. He laughs, a short bark of a noise, and then grins. “Was wondering how long it would take before you cracked.”

“You don’t have to tell me anything, dear boy,” says Aziraphale, standing and walking over to the table holding their collection of wine bottles. It would take them days to finish all of this — and then Aziraphale has to squeeze his eyes shut, because spending days locked into this bedroom set with Crowley sounds absolutely appealing, and: _maybe_ he’s a bit drunk. “Your Pinot, or this Cabernet I snagged from the kitchen?”

“You know what,” Crowley says, sounding remarkably close, “let’s have the Cab and see how it stands up.”

Unable to help himself, Aziraphale turns around, and Crowley’s right there — maybe a meter away, probably closer, looking down at Aziraphale with a smirk that has a bit of tension round the edges. And his glasses are off.

Crowley’s _eyes._ They’re _lovely._ It’s stunning. Aziraphale knows he’s gaping a bit like an absolute idiot but - Crowley’s standing close enough he must have planned this, must have wanted a reaction - and it really is striking.

Crowley’s left eye - to Aziraphale’s right - is this strong yellow-gold, a color Aziraphale’s never seen before; it’s more than a pale version of brown, it’s bold like honey and brass. His right eye is a warm, dark gentle brown, with the smallest ring of something lighter around the pupil, the color of some deeply comforting wood. The contrast is intensely noticeable and Aziraphale spends a breathless second wondering which he prefers before deciding he enjoys all of it.

“Oh, but they’re lovely,” he says, sounding surprised even to himself.

Crowley’s smirks twists up into a grin, and he steps past Aziraphale - who is still standing, stunned - to start opening the Cabernet Sauvignon. “Don’t usually hear that word, but thanks, angel.” Crowley’s entire face is bare without them; Aziraphale can see the creases at the corners of his eyes, the way his brows play as he flicks a deliberately sultry glance over at Aziraphale, laughing. “You can see why.”

“Not at all,” Aziraphale says, shocked. “There’s no reason for you to cover them up.”

Crowley wrenches the cork out of the bottle and pours, topping them both off. He waves his other hand in the direction of his face. “‘S a bit distracting, I guess, puts people off. And the one’s a bit sensitive, too, so sunglasses help that when I’m outside. Look. It’s just easier to not have to deal with it _every time_ I talk to somebody new.”

Aziraphale doesn’t want to sound like he’s pretending he knows what it’s like. “Whatever’s easiest, my boy, but please don’t feel like you need to wear them around me.” He swallows, because that sounds incredibly familiar. “I mean, if you don’t want to.”

“Hmm.” Crowley just makes a noise in the back of his throat as he hands Aziraphale his glass, and they clink. Aziraphale watches, enthralled, as Crowley closes his eyes to take a sip. His lips rest at the edge of his glass and his brows raise slightly, and _oh_ , Aziraphale is reading his face like a new novel he’s been waiting for.

This is so terribly inappropriate. Crowley’s here, in his rooms, to spend time with him. Willingly. Not as a customer, or as a famous blogger, but just as friends. Aziraphale reasons that it’s just been a while since he has met anyone carrying such stark, sharp lines of beauty. _Anyone_ might feel a bit overwhelmed. Crowley is a _masterpiece._

And yes, he’s definitely a bit drunk.

“Not bad,” Crowley announces, and turns to Aziraphale. “Who picked this one?”

Aziraphale has to literally shake himself out of his fugue state. He had not expected to be this thrown by the revealed angles and planes of Crowley’s face; he would have been drinking more slowly if he’d known it was going to his like this. “I - I don’t know,” he stammers. “It was in the kitchen. So either one of your crew brought it over, or our hostess selected it.”

“Ah, yes, Madame Tracy,” says Crowley. He sets the bottle down on the coffee table and throws himself back into the corner as if his life depends on it. “She does have good taste.”

“How on earth do you know Tracy?” Aziraphale carefully makes his way back to the stuffed chair he’s been sitting in. He absolutely is _not_ going to sit on the other end of the couch.

“Good customer of mine.” Crowley gives him a wicked grin. It’s so much more with his glasses off; his eyes crinkle, one brow lifting a bit. Aziraphale must be drunk, because he’s smitten with it. Crowley’s uneven gaze redefines all the expressions Aziraphale has been learning: the arch of a brow over that golden eye and Aziraphale feels like he has the vapors.

“Oh!” Aziraphale remembers. “That’s right, Warlock and I drank something of yours the first night we were here. That’s why we came in the first place.”

Crowley throws an arm over the back of the couch and - very obviously - preens. “So good you had to have a second taste?” He drawls, and Aziraphale knows he’s blushing now. He takes a very long sip of the Cabernet Sauvignon — oh, this is his first taste of it; he’s been far too distracted to even think about it. “First bite of the apple,” Crowley adds, grinning even more. “That’s what gets you.”

“Don’t let it go to your head,” Aziraphale tells him, but he can’t keep the subtle smile off of his face. It turns fond when Crowley meets his gaze with those dazzling mismatched eyes, and Aziraphale drinks again. At least this way he can blame his blush on the wine.

———

And as such, April passes into May.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> also don't think you're getting 7 chapters for each month of this fic, this is already gonna be like 100K, don't look at me like that
> 
> although the next chapter is like 12K of Crowley feat. spring in the vineyard, Hastur and Ligur, and an accidental date 
> 
> don't look here
> 
> OH ALSO! So many of the nice comments have been about wines and wine tastings and California ground specifically, and I've been writing up a little companion piece about wine tasting, but I can share this [Pinterest board for Old Vines](https://www.pinterest.com/Sevdrag/old-vines-the-go-winery-au/) \-- I've been collecting inspiration pictures and wine facts in there for anybody who wants to play along with the story!
> 
> I FEED ON YOUR COMMENTS AND YOU'RE THE GREATEST.


	7. Tempering and Tending

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's Crowley hour: May is second only to the harvest in busiest months of the year, and Crowley's burning the candle at both ends to stay on top of that, a surprise inspection, and what might be an accidental date.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OH MY GOD ITS THURSDAY WHAT IS HAPPENING 
> 
> anyway: sorry! last weekend i helped my murder husband (feathers_and_cigarettes) move from Boston to Ohio. it was one hell of an adventure, and I'm absolutely still catching up on sleep, chores, and writing. It's a great story. I named the truck Shitty Ricky. Many cokes were sacrificed to ensure we got there safely.
> 
> i have a buffer for this story so that I know what's coming, but this chapter just wasn't ready to post, and yesterday I was _exhausted._ It's a long chapter, and a big one for Crowley, and I debated about it for three days before just leaving it all in and throwing it at you. (The things are doing things. I guess?) 
> 
> forgive my 24-hr lateness, life intervenes. why is Crowley like this.

Crowley wakes up slowly - painfully - somewhere unfamiliar.

His mouth tastes like socks. His joints all feel like tiny fireworks, and his head is pounding out the syllables of the Pledge of Allegiance as delivered by a fucking machine gun, and his arm is asleep, and where the _fuck_ is he?

It’s not his bed, because his bed is far more comfortable than this. It’s not his couch, either, or the couch in the _Ecdyses_ break room, or his chair, or even the floor: it doesn’t _smell_ right. He isn’t smelling any of the familiar hints: his terroir, wet from the fog and the dew; his breezes, flickering through the leaves; his things and his garden and his home. And yet it isn’t that he feels — Crowley feels _safe,_ here. There’s no anxiety, no tension - other than his arm, which would really like him to move sometime soon - so where the hell is a place where he can feel completely unfamiliar and yet safe?

His eyes are glued shut. Crowley stretches his eyebrows in a pathetic attempt at stretching them, and then wrenches his eyelids open. The light hits him like the coming of the Antichrist and he makes some kind of terribly pathetic noise — realizing only then that his throat is dry and tastes like the _ashes_ of socks.

Well, fuck, this is a lovely hangover.

Crowley peels his eyelids open again and squints into the unfamiliar room. He can see the edge of the couch he’s lying on, and across the way there’s a great stand with a television on it that he feels like he’s seen before. The coffee table his eyes hit next holds three empty wine glasses - one tipped on its side - and an empty bottle of Ruth. As he struggles to sit up, the pieces fall into place, and Crowley glances over to the recliner where he’s expecting to see Aziraphale.

The other man is also asleep; the recliner is extended, and there’s a book in his lap, as if he’d been trying to read. Aziraphale’s head is tipped back and he’s snoring a bit. Crowley’s eyes sit on the expanse of that pale, rich throat before continuing. Both of Aziraphale’s hands are resting on the back of the book, and he seems to have managed to only kick off one of his shoes.

Crowley sits up and immediately regrets the last twelve hours of his existence. He ends up leaning his side into the back cushion of the couch, his hands pressed over his face, focusing on breathing and trying to gather the energy he needs to go make his mouth taste like something other than mold and charcoal.

He probably dozes off again in that position, half-sitting, because he jerks awake again at a pounding knock on the door.

“Az!” The voice is familiar; Crowley wrenches the mush of his brain together. If this is Aziraphale’s place, still, it’s probably his assistant. Warlock. “Az, I’m as hungover as you are, but you have a call with _Gabriel_ in fifteen minutes, and you need to have _pants on,_ you fucking dumbass.”

Crowley hears a pathetically deep groan and looks up to see Aziraphale very slowly righting the recliner. He’s rubbing his forehead, he looks agonizingly tired, and Crowley watches as he palms his hands though his hair a few times before swallowing.

“Fuck,” says Aziraphale, very slowly and distinctly, as if he’s using every single parched braincell to speak.

Crowley snorts, and Aziraphale’s eyes jerk upwards, startled — and then calm instantly, his face softening in what looks like an incredibly weary smile. “You’re still here,” he says, and Crowley can hear a bit of wonder in his voice at it.

“Just woke up.” He tries to shrug, aware it’s going to look pathetically grumpy.

Aziraphale rubs his hands through his hair - those pale blond curls are wild, a cloud round his face - and glances around the room. “My dear boy,” he says carefully, “we may have had one bottle too many last night.”

Crowley barks something that should be a stand-in for a laugh and decides he’s going to stand up.

———

To his surprise, there’s no one else in the house. Warlock explains that The Them had crashed in the great room, but they’d been up early and had all headed back to their own respective beds. Crowley rubs his hand down his face and tries not to be embarrassed.

Aziraphale isn’t embarrassed as much as _anxious._ He’d kindly but firmly shuffled Crowley out of his bedrooms and into that stunning kitchen to stare dumbly at the Keurig while Warlock toasted up English muffins and groaned. Aziraphale had emerged wearing a gorgeous pale mint-green buttondown and a camel blazer, complete with a bowtie, and had met Crowley’s eyes anxiously as he’d come into the kitchen, bustling like an old grandmother.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says eventually, just as Crowley has collected his mug of coffee from the contraption. “I, um. As Warlock said, I have a call with my manager soon, and I think it’s best if you...”

Crowley realizes belatedly that he’s being asked to leave. It shouldn’t exactly twist his chest this hard; he hadn’t planned to stay over at all, had in fact intruded into Aziraphale’s personal space by doing so. So why is his heart pounding as this tight feeling floods his belly? Why does it feel like disappointment?

“Oh,” Aziraphale adds hurriedly, and Crowley realizes he’s far too hungover to hide the expressions on his face. He fumbles in his pocket for his sunglasses, but it would be awkward to put them on now, so he’s stuck with whatever his damn eyebrows seem to be doing.

“I don’t mean to kick you out, dear, it isn’t like you aren’t welcome here any time, I just need to - eh, well, focus on this call for the moment.”

Crowley manages to reclaim his face and grins an easy grin, waving his hand. His head feels like it’s full of bees. “No problem, angel, I’ve invaded your space enough, I think.” He means it to be teasing, genuine; instead it comes out a little bit too honest for his liking. Warlock seems to catch it, by the way he starts to look at Crowley before going back to those English muffins. Aziraphale, it seems, is too flustered to notice.

He’s fussing his hands along that textured mint shirt. It sets off the pale curls on his head, as well as the kaleidoscope of his eyes, and while the camel blazer is probably fifteen years out of fashion, it fits him nicely.

“Oh,” says Aziraphale, obviously fretting, “how do I look?” He’s talking to Warlock, but then he turns to Crowley, and there’s this very strange look in his eyes, as if he’s asking Crowley for something.

Maybe he is. Crowley considers being bitter, since he’s being kicked out of the house, but with that look on Aziraphale’s face he can’t really bring himself to be mean to the man. “You look like you just stepped out of 2001,” he drawls, making sure to give his most flirtatious smirk, “but in a good way, angel.”

Aziraphale just gives him a _look_ , rolling his eyes with a smile, and it’s right back to where they were last night, camaraderie restored.

“You look fine,” Warlock tells him, shoving a plate and a mug into his hands. The English muffin has jam, and the mug has some sort of tea. “He’ll like it. He likes when you wear bow-ties. Now go, I have you set up in the study. eat your muffin and calm down a bit before he calls.”

Aziraphale glances down at the plate as if he’s been too distracted to realize Warlock is feeding him. “Oh, thank you, dear boy,” he says.

This is all sitting a bit funny in Crowley’s stomach too, and he isn’t sure why? _He likes when you wear bow-ties,_ as if Aziraphale’s dressing up for some other man? Calling Warlock _dear boy?_ Fuck, why should it matter? Aziraphale is free to bestow his pleasant little mannerisms on anyone he likes.

It’s probably just the hangover.

Aziraphale turns to Crowley, then, and there’s still that tension on his face, but he manages to give Crowley one of his mostly lovely smiles. “Thank you for your company, my dear boy,” he says. “I’m so sorry to have to run.”

And then he turns around and leaves the kitchen, turning the corner to head into what Crowley has to figure is the study. Why is this weird?

“Here,” Warlock says, breaking Crowley’s train of thought. He comes back to himself to see Warlock holding out another plate with an English muffin, toasted lightly, butter already soaking into the nooks and crannies. “Wasn’t sure what you liked. Feel free to help yourself to the jam.”

Thanks,” Crowley says, surprised, and he lets Warlock lead him over to the little breakfast table to sit down.

Warlock looks at him, sighs, and then grins crookedly. “Look. We all got a bit sloshed last night, not the first time for any of us. You aren’t being kicked out on purpose. It’s just that—” He glances over his shoulder, and then turns back to Crowley, his voice lowered. “Az’s boss is a real cunt.”

Crowley nearly snorts coffee. “Isn’t he your boss too?”

“I let him think so,” says Warlock, with another of those grins. Crowley _likes_ Warlock, or he would if his head weren’t pounding so hard. “Sorry, it isn’t a nice word to use as an insult. He’s just... a real shithead.”

Crowley simply raises his eyebrow in his best _tell-me-more_ gesture.

“He makes Az really nervous, even though all the mean stuff happens behind his back,” Warlock explains. “I’m pretty sure he forgot about this call entirely last night because he _hates_ being anything but perfect in front of Gabriel. I guarantee he’ll come out of that call an absolute stressball over it. So don’t take it personally, man. It ain’t you.”

Crowley isn’t sure whether he feels better or worse. On one hand, it’s nice to know that Aziraphale’s anxiety this morning wasn’t caused by Crowley sleeping over on his couch. On the other hand, he doesn’t like that Warlock can read him so _easily_. Crowley looks up, a frown on his face, and then realizes Warlock hasn’t said a single thing about his eyes, either.

Crowley remembers Aziraphale saying his boss didn’t quite like it when his writers associated with the owners they were viewing, or something like that. Okay, fine. He isn’t going to entirely be the grownup here, because he’s hungover, and because that’s a stupid fucking rule, but he’ll at least consider it in the future when he’s less poundy in the head area.

“It’s no big deal,” Crowley drawls, and he can see Warlock doesn’t believe that for a second, but he at least lets Crowley eat his English muffin in peace.

———

Crowley stops in the tasting room long enough to give both Newt and Anathema the middle finger, and then heads home to chug a giant glass of cold water and collapse into his bed. (Anathema’s always pushing for him to take more days off, anyway. She shouldn’t complain when he does.) _Whooo-ee_ , he hasn’t been this hungover in a long time. Probably since the last budburst. At least. His brain feels like it’s a crumbling brick in a washing machine. Fuck.

Crowley flops over onto his back and flings his arms and legs out wide. He stares at the ceiling.

...and starts yelling at himself. What the _fuck,_ Crowley thinks. There wasn’t even anything _remotely inappropriate_ about the night — other than two forty-something year old men getting wasted on wine on a work night, really, and that’s more depressing than it is... why does he _feel_ like this? Why is this all suddenly some _big deal_ that he slept on Aziraphale’s couch?

The couch in his _bedroom suite,_ Crowley’s brain says helpfully back at him, and Crowley groans, pressing both hands over his face.

So that’s what it is. It’s like a walk of shame he hadn’t even _earned._

However, as hungover as he is right now, Crowley decides he can put these somewhat life-threatening realizations off until his brain doesn’t feel like an ice cube in a blender.

Luckily, he falls asleep before his brain proves him wrong.

———

Crowley returns to the tasting room around dinnertime; Adam and Brian are there, working the kitchen while Anathema and Newt deftly handle the handful of customers they have. Mondays are usually slow - another reason they all take off on Sunday - and the crowd is absolutely manageable, but he gets this _itch_ on the soles of his feet if he isn’t there for longer than a day or two. Today, when he’s feeling so off-centered, it’s extra important that he’s here and present.

Anathema takes one look at him and shoves him out the back door. “Go talk to your dirt,” she tells him, and it would be funny except that Anathema has that sixth sense that means she isn’t actually joking.

Crowley kicks off his moccasins. There isn’t anything quite like the feeling of bare feet against the gentle moist soil of the spring. As much as he loves the way shoes can complete a statement outfit, Crowley’s never really been a fan; he’d be barefoot every day if it didn’t break relevant health codes. Skin to ground contact: there’s something soothing about it, something that grounds all of the prickly static in Crowley. Sometimes he just wants to lay down, belly in the earth, head down into the richness of his soil, just to breathe clean air through its filter.

Of course, he finds himself at the old vines.

This is the heart of his winery. Crowley rarely lets _anyone_ walk this earth — it isn’t that people walking through will disturb these ancient growths, which have withstood time and rain and ice and all kinds of change; it’s more that he does not want anyone to see the feeling on his face when he stands here within this strong chamber, still pumping strong into the nutrients of the earth and upwards into the blooming vines.

This was the first place Crowley found some semblance of peace after a generous thirty-some years of his life and he’s still weak to it. He wonders whether She had any idea what She was doing with this second chance, or if this was all just a roll of the dice. He does know that he’s never felt like he deserved it.

It’s just Crowley being Crowley again, assigning all kinds of meaning to things that, in the end, aren’t actually there at all.

He could make a career out of that. (Sometimes he thinks he has.) And if he had a dollar for every time he just decided to not think about thing that bother him, well, he wouldn’t be worrying about all of those loans. He’s very deliberately and specifically _not_ thinking about being kicked out of A.Z. Fell’s gigantic splendid rental mansion like a shameful shag. He isn’t at all wondering whether Aziraphale will bother to come back or not. He isn’t thinking about anything.

Nevertheless, he stays out in the old vines until the sun sets, and then makes his way back into the winery to make fun of Anathema some more.

———

Crowley’s surprised a few days later when his phone buzzes around 9am.

_Will you be working in the tasting room today?_

He smiles.

_**I’m here every day, angel. This is my life.** _

**__**

_Oh, I do wish you wouldn’t bother with that stupid nickname. The blog name wasn’t my idea, you know._

_**Really? What idiot came up with it then?** _

**__**

_If you must know, my boss. Anyway, we may come by later. I feel like I’ve recovered, and I’m dying for a glass of that Old Vine Zin again._

_**Got you covered.** _

**_Angel._ **

Crowley gets no response to this, but he smiles anyway.

———

Aziraphale and Warlock do show up, some time round half seven. Crowley reminds himself that there’s no such thing as an actual mind-reader, and angles himself against the bar as Aziraphale sits down across from him. He looks — not tired, per se, but _worn,_ a battery in need of charging. Luckily, Crowley has wine, and probably some of Newt’s paninis in the back. (He’s granted the lovebirds the night off when it had ended up being nearly empty, because he really hadn’t liked the way they were looking at each other tonight, full of besotted longing.)

Pepper emerges from the back rooms to grab Warlock’s arm and tug him behind the bar. Crowley watches them vanish, and Pepper throws him a look and a wink over her shoulder that suddenly has Crowley thinking terrible gross thoughts because he knows Adam isn’t here and doubts either of the other two boys are.

“Is it a full moon?” Crowley asks as he saunters over to the door, flipping the sign to closed and locking it. If it’s just Aziraphale here, he has no need to bring in any other customers, not that there have been many. “Is there something in the water? Venus in retrograde?”

“I dare say I have no idea.” Aziraphale has wiggled his way onto a stool. His eyes still look extinguished, and yet he’s watching Crowley with a bit of fondness, a faint smile playing his mouth. “Why?”

Crowley frowns and reaches for the open bottle of Apocalypse. (Usually at the end of the tasting day, he lets whoever’s come in take home the open bottle of their choice, but today’s closing had been random and he hadn’t really thought about it.) He manages two small pours before it runs dry, and slides one across the bar for Aziraphale to pick up.

“I sent Newt and Anathema home today for making sex eyes at each other across the tasting room,” he tells Aziraphale, and is rewarded as Aziraphale makes a choking noise into his glass and flushes. “And Pepper just gave me the kind of look that says I’d better not go back in the offices to check on the paperwork any time soon.”

Aziraphale’s eyes widen as his glance trails over to where Warlock had vanished. He swallows, and then shakes his head. “Warlock said they were going to _watch a movie,_ ” he tells Crowley, and Crowley grins.

“Netflix and chill?”

“I’m not quite sure what that means.”

Crowley snorts. “Fine, sure, they’re watching a movie. Have it your way.”

Aziraphale’s lips go flat as if he’s pressing them together strongly, and then he says, “Not that I mind in general, for the record. I just would rather not...” His gaze trails back, again, to the doorway to the back offices. “Oh, good lord, is this some sort of - what is it - butt dial?”

Crowley hoots at that, sliding his glass across the bar with a jerk, unable to stop the spasm of his hand. “Booty call,” he tells Aziraphale, “and probably no, since you texted me this morning about it. Or,” and he lets his sunglasses drop down his nose so that he can more effectively leer. “Isss it a booty call?”

Aziraphale flushes, but instead of spluttering as Crowley sort-of expects him to, he just placidly sips at his wine. “I’ve no idea what that phrase means either,” he says, as if butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth, and Crowley grins all wide at it.

“Look it up,” he says, and then pulls up a stool to sit across from Aziraphale. “Cheers.”

They’ve both been sipping, but Aziraphale dutifully raises his glass to chime against Crowley’s, and they both drink somewhat deeply this time.

“Ah.” It starts as a bit of a gasp, then becomes a long, drawn-out sigh of contentment as Aziraphale closes his eyes, swirling the wine in his glass. “That’s every bit as good as I remembered,” he murmurs. Crowley’s watching him from behind his glasses, stealing these little hints and gestures when Aziraphale can’t see him watching. “This has aired out, hasn’t it?”

Crowley shrugs, wondering once again how Aziraphale knows. “This is one of the bottles we opened today for tasting,” he says, gesturing at the number of open bottles with pouring corks sitting at the angled point of the tasting bar. “So yeah, that’s been aerated a bit, pouring multiple tastes, sure.”

“Heavens, but that really opens it up, doesn’t it?” Aziraphale sips again, this time swirling the wine around in his mouth in a motion Crowley can’t peel his terrible eyes away from. He watches Aziraphale swallow, ducking his head in that way that flashes a bit of a roll beneath his chin, increasingly endearing. “It’s like... oh, I don’t know. The same wine, but in a more flattering outfit?”

Crowley snorts in laughter. Mentally, of course, he considers his own outfit: long-sleeved black button-down, today, with his burgundy vest and actual black trousers, one of his more presentable ones. Of course that means his hair’s done up in two wrapped braids and he has eyeliner on again under the sunglasses, because hell forbid he shows up presentable. “I guess,” he says, drawling it out. “‘M not sure I taste the same things you do, angel. I’m looking for the sun and the rain, I am, not some random red berry.”

“I do wonder what it might be like in your mouth,” Aziraphale says, and Crowley chokes on his wine. When he manages to glance over at Aziraphale the other man is sitting primly, but there’s the hint of a smile around his lips like he absolutely knows what he just said.

“Butt dial,” Crowley mutters, with a roll of his eyes he hopes is obvious, but Aziraphale is staring into his glass with an intense sort of look on his face. “What?

“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale says, drawing himself up excitedly. “Are you, perhaps, up for a bit of an experiment?”

———

The fullest bottle they have open from tasting that day is a bottle of Judith, the Syrah, which must have just been opened right before Anathema and Newt left. Aziraphale has convinced Crowley to open a fresh bottle, and over on the other side of the bar he’s taken the previously-opened Judith and is repeatedly pouring it between glasses, into one and then back into the former, the distance between the two glasses increasing every time, probably for maximal air contact.

While Crowley was fetching the fresh bottle Aziraphale has, apparently, taken the time to roll his sleeves up to the top of his forearm, right below his elbow, and the sudden flash of that pale-blond hair and bared skin has Crowley’s throat tightening up. Which really isn’t fair. He’s worn a goddamn dress in front of this man, bared more skin than that; if anyone is overwhelmed it certainly should be Aziraphale. Not him.

It strikes Crowley that they’ve fallen into this again: the way their evenings together just take everything else over; the way once he’s talking to Aziraphale he can lose hours in it and it never feels strange or awkward or too much. Crowley realizes, in that slow lurching kind of realization that can absolutely obliterate one’s internal axes, that all of their conversations have been this level of overwhelmingly engrossing.

Well, fuck.

He’ll think about that later. Or never. (Probably later. It’s hard enough not to think about it _now._ )

Once the bottle has been opened, Crowley lets it sit and goes to rolling back the sleeves of his shirt as well. He doesn’t even like wearing his sleeves down, except that he likes the way this particular shirt draws out the lines of his arms. He catches Aziraphale’s eyes on his own forearms more than once and makes sure he stretches his arms out when he’s done in a brilliant showing of his silhouette.

(Crowley knows what he looks like. He’s too sharp, jutting angles and elbows and long lanky limbs. So he’s embraced it over the years, given himself a swagger and a style that makes it look intentional. It only works when he’s dressed up, though, like a costume he wears to hide the fact his shoulderblades can cut and his fingernails bleed.)

(Why is he _like this._ )

(Are they doing this? Maybe they’re doing this. Maybe Aziraphale is just warm.)

“So,” Aziraphale says, drawing the three fresh glasses he’d asked for in front of himself. “Here we have Judith, freshly opened, where the only air she’s seen is this pour.” He fills the glass at least halfway. “Then we have this Judith with casual aeration, having been open for some of today and having breathed in the general air.” Another generous pour. “And this is the Judith I’ve just aerated deliberately.”

One, two, three glasses sit in front of Crowley. “Where do we start?” He drawls, and kicks his leg up on top of the minifridge behind the bar that holds their tasting whites.

Aziraphale pulls out his notebook, of course, and carefully presses it open into the bar top. “I’m actually curious now as well,” he confesses, and his smile is indulgent and fond. “It might make a good post. When you’re tasting a sample at a winery, do you need to consider the aeration of the wine as you decipher the taste?”

Crowley splutters, laughing. “Where do we start _drinking,_ ” he corrects, and then he realizes there are only three glasses sitting between them.

“Here,” Aziraphale says, sliding the first glass across the space. “This one. Freshly opened, minimal aeration. This is the taste right out of the bottle.”

Obediently Crowley picks up the glass and smells it. There’s no fucking fruit or wood or flower in there. What he smells is the dense planting of Judith’s high-density vines, rows only spaced 4 feet apart, only harvestable by human hands unless Crowley somehow finds the money to invest in one of those narrow-lane harvesters. He has no idea why the fuck the previous owners have left the vines like this, producing such a high yield per acre that Crowley’s always worried it’s going to taste like piss and vinegar. And yet, the Syrah grows nicely in those shortened dimensions, because their thick skins protect them from the types of problems that can plague other kinds of grapes.

He takes a long sip, and again, it just tastes like Judith.

“Right, angel,” he says. “That’s Judith, she is.”

“Okay,” Aziraphale says, and Crowley watches as the other man plucks the glass from his fingers and brings it up to his face, breathing deeply before taking a long, slow sip, as if this is a process over time.

“A perfect Syrah,” Aziraphale says, his eyes still closed and a hand coming up to bring thumb and fingertip together. “Syrah is darker than most, and this one carries more spice than other reds. Almost smoky, but with something that - it isn’t licorice - clove, maybe.”

Crowley’s still hung up on the fact that they’re sharing glasses. He makes some kind of guttural noise to answer Aziraphale’s ramblings, and reaches for the glass to have another sip now that Aziraphale has. He imagines pressing his lips at the same space Aziraphale did; an indirect kiss. _Holy fuck, Crowley. Get a hold of yourself._

“Next, let’s try this subtle aeration.” Aziraphale picks up the glass, swirls it, and then holds it out to Crowley. “Focus on anything you taste that’s different.”

Crowley takes the glass dubiously. It smells the same - just like Judith - and as he brings it to his mouth he’s fairly sure he isn’t going to taste anything different, because this is the same wine from the same soil the same year, and—

Wait, though. Because there’s a bitterness that has - vanished? - from the flavor. And he wouldn’t have lit on it had he not _just_ tasted Judith from a bottle. It’s surprising, frankly, and he can’t help but make a noise that has Aziraphale’s eyes tracking him as if Crowley’s the only interesting thing that exists anymore.

“What is it?” Aziraphale asks, his voice low and compelling and _hells,_ Crowley’s brain needs to make its way out of this gutter and back into his skull.

“‘S not a taste,” Crowley tells him, and reaches for the glass that has the fresh-poured Judith within. He sips at that, and tastes - a bitter edge, not _quite_ sulfur but some mineral taste that he wouldn’t have categorized as _bad_ without tasting the second version. “It’s ...nnnmmm, it’s, nnnhg, a thing that isn’t there.”

“That’s perfectly valid,” Aziraphale tells him. “May I?”

And Crowley hands the glass directly over to Aziraphale, who drinks from the same glass Crowley did. His mouth on the other side of the same rim Crowley has put his own mouth to. Aziraphale didn’t bother to pour them separate glasses; Aziraphale assumed they’d be absolutely content to share.

Aziraphale is right, but maybe for an entirely different reason than he intended. Crowley’s doomed.

_“Oh,_ ” says Aziraphale, and it’s another one of those noises Crowley associates with somewhere much more intimate than his own tasting room - although what, this is an intimate moment, right here, sharing the rim of the glassware - and some small needy bit of him will never tire of hearing Aziraphale praise his wine. “You’re right. It’s some of that - those sulfuric compounds, the ones that can taste like wet rocks after a rain. They’ve oxidized, see, from exposure to the air.”

The words barely mean anything to Crowley, but he hangs on them anyway. “Is that good or bad? Which one’s more important, angel?”

Aziraphale slides the glass back across the bar top. It’s deliberate. Aziraphale has meant for them to share glasses from the beginning, as if they’re - as if they’re the kind of people who share wine glasses. Crowley has no idea how to take this. He feels besotted and stupid. He knows this isn’t a good look on him.

“It isn’t really good or bad,” Aziraphale tells him, picking up the third glass and swirling it. “Your Syrah is perfectly balanced right out of the bottle. It isn’t like there’s some unharmonious note that needs to be removed. Aeration simply pulls out some of the byproducts from the brewing process that can become bothersome over time.” He breathes in the third glass, sighs as his eyelashes flutter shut, and drinks.

_This is ridiculous,_ Crowley thinks. _What am I doing here. I’m in the wrong story._ It’s fuckin’ useless to have this kind of stupid crush on someone who’s mostly just here for the wine. That’s flattering - yeah - but Crowley really needs to rein in the brain and _stop. watching. Aziraphale’s. mouth._

“Here,” Aziraphale says, and Crowley picks it up to take a heavy swig.

Except that this is — this is Judith, yes, but this is Judith punching him in the _teeth._ He nearly chokes on it, setting the glass down to cough through it.

“Hell, you’re right,” he manages to get out around the choke in his throat. “Same wine, but dressed up. Fancy dress, fuckin’ Louboutins on. Shit.”

Aziraphale laughs, the sound pealing out like bells in the empty tasting room. “Only you,” he says, fondly, and then raises an eyebrow in a way that looks like a smirk. “I assume you have a pair?”

Crowley snorts. “Two, angel. I have standards.”

“I’m sure you do,” Aziraphale murmurs, and there’s something else in it that Crowley can’t read. He waits a second too long but then slides the glass across to Aziraphale, readjusting his limbs for maximum appeal.

Crowley ignores the noises the other man is making, tugging at the seams of his trousers, flicking the buttons of his waistcoat. “So, angel, what’s the trick, then? Cause a bottle that gets left out open overnight doesn’t taste like this. Tastes like vinegar and grape juice.”

“Oxidation goes too far,” says Aziraphale. “As well as evaporation. It’s a short-term taste.”

Crowley hums, flicks a fingernail against the glass. It’s a friendly kind of silence; passing the glasses back and forth, Aziraphale making little noises, Crowley just letting the familiar wine sit in his mouth.

Still a bit surreal. But Crowley’s working on that. Having passed out drunk on the man’s couch helps a bit.

“How was your call with your manager?”

He doesn’t miss the way Aziraphale’s face flushes over with — anger? Embarrassment? Warlock doesn’t like the boss, Crowley remembers. Maybe Aziraphale doesn’t either.

But the look smooths out into a little pout, and Aziraphale sighs. “Same as usual,” he tells Crowley, and the drink he takes this time is a bit longer. “Went over the changes they’re making to my articles, talked about the book I’m writing that he doesn’t like.” It’s only a bit bitter, but Crowley’s now curious.

“Right,” he says. He tops off the glass of Judith-from-the-bottle, takes a swig, and passes it to Aziraphale. “Not sure you’ve exactly explained what you’re doing in wine country in a house that sleeps twenty-three.”

“Ah,” says Aziraphale, but he snorts, and a bit of that frustration fades away. “I’m terribly sorry. I’ve been trying not to talk too much about work.”

“No need to keep quiet on my account,” Crowley tells him, smirking. “Tell me your secrets, angel.”

Aziraphale blushes, and flicks a look over at Crowley before looking back down at the glass in front of him. “Oh,” Crowley says, feeling massively stupid. “Right, that’s it, innit?” He opens a hand in Aziraphale’s direction. “I’m joking. You know. I mean, obviously you know that, hn, but yeah, I get it. Conflict of interest, eh, and all. No need to get into it with the guy you’re reviewing, yeah?”

“Oh, heavens, no, that isn’t it at all,” Aziraphale blurts, and to Crowley’s surprise he rests his hand over Crowley’s where it’s sitting on the bar.

_Hng. Soft blogger hands. Ngk._ Crowley’s brain is an idiot.

“I just don’t want it to dominate the conversation,” Aziraphale says. His hand stays, a calming weight on Crowley’s knuckles. “I can be particularly single-minded. And since what we both do overlaps so much, I don’t want to spend all of this time talking about work.”

_Talking about what else, then?_ Crowley shakes his head to shut it up. “Talk about whatever you want, angel,” he tells Aziraphale. “After all, we’re friends now, aren’t we?”

It’s meant to be teasing, but it produces the sweetest smile on Aziraphale’s face, and Crowley feels his chest tightening up. “That we are,” Aziraphale replies, sighing a bit, and Crowley grins.

———

“But what’s the book _about?”_

They’ve defeated the Judith and the Apocolypse, and have moved on to valiantly emptying the remains of whatever had been opened for tasting. (Pepper and Warlock had emerged, giggling a bit but otherwise proper, and Crowley had just lowered the sunglasses to glare at them as Pepper neatly swiped the bottle of Honey and Psalms.) It’s a tough job, Crowley thinks, but someone has to do it.

Aziraphale is stammering for the first time and Crowley finds it incredibly charming. “It’s about, well, it’s about this!” He makes a sweeping motion, as if including all of the Russian River Valley in the gesture. “Wine country, and what it tastes like, and what I end up doing over the course of the stay.”

“But what’s the _plot.”_ Teasing Aziraphale is hilarious. “Are you the hero? Is there a murder? I like mysteries.”

Aziraphale rolls his eyes so hard Crowley’s sure they can feel it on the moon. “There are absolutely _no_ murders, although you’re trying my patience. It’s a _memoir_ , Crowley, not a fiction.”

“ _Memoir_ just sounds vulgar, though. Revealing all of your sordid secrets on the page.” He says it just to watch Aziraphale splutter. “The Conquests of A.Z. Fell. Certainly would sell. Wine’s sexy, angel.”

Aziraphale breathes in sharply through his nose, but his eyes are sparkling. “Incorrigible, you are.”

“I am,” Crowley says proudly. He’s got Ruth, while Azirpahale is taking a break from reds with Song of Solomon. “Horrible. Absolutely scandalous. I belong in your sexy book.”

“Oh, you’re in it,” Aziraphale murmurs — and then turns back to his glass, his cheeks pinking up, as if he didn’t mean to say anything. “I mean, I’ve reviewed your place already, you know. You’re in the, um, archives.”

Crowley decides he’ll save whatever that moment was to think about later.

“Anthony Crowley,” he continues, grinning, “debonair private detective, teams up with A.Z. Fell - actual angel - to solve the mystery of the...” His imagination, having done so well up to this point, promptly stops working. “The, um. Well. The. Hm.” His hand makes a scribble in the air. “Your turn.”

Aziraphale’s smile is entirely too smug. “Are you telling me the suave Detective Crowley doesn’t have a nemesis? Or some such?”

“Ah, I mean, nk.” Crowley sputters. “It’s wine country, angel.”

Although he inadvertently thinks about his own ...nemeses? It seems unfair to call Dagon that; especially unfair to Bee, who is at least a semblance of a friend. Crowley argues enough with the damn vines; maybe that’s really his nemesis. The passing of time? The unpredictable cycle of growth, and dormancy? Fuck. Might as well say his nemesis is _interest rates._

Aziraphale looks incredibly self-satisfied. “And thus, the reason I’m not writing a _murder mystery_ ,” he tells Crowley. “High crime, indeed!”

“Mine’s better,” Crowley mumbles, but he refills Aziraphale’s glass and lets him win the point.

———

April, to Crowley, is a magical month — magical in that it always feels _cursed._ The beginning of April is always three years long, while he waits in a pool of anxiety for budburst, for the oncoming signs that his vines will, in fact, make grapes this year. Then, to make up for the decade he has to wait through, the rest of April flies by in what feels like three days.

Budbreak is the beginning. That is, the beginning of the spring process, on which so much of their fall harvest will be based. After April comes May, and if April was the worst, May is the _actual_ worst.

When he first started Crowley had to outsource, because he had no idea how to handle his own pruning. Luckily within all the paperwork She’d left him there were some recommendations, and Crowley had stalked them, watching their shoot-thinning technique and asking so many questions he’d nearly been banned off his own land.

In order to have meaningful growth, you have to _tend._ To guide, to prune back and redirect and shape. Crowley has no control over budburst, which makes him anxious; now, he has _all_ of the control over the tending of the vines, and it isn’t much better. The biggest difference is that he always feels better when his hands are on the vines, leaving his fingerprints on the living plants he’s responsible for.

At this point, Crowley can trust Adam and Anathema to manage it, as long as he’s there with them to help. Suckering is delicate. Take off too much and you’re stifling the vine; take off too little, and the vine needs too many resources to keep growing and starves itself. Do it too early, and you’ll have to do it again in late spring; too late, and the vines are already set in their ways.

They have to do it all at once, the suckering and topping and pruning, because there’s ten acres to get through and Crowley does as much of it himself as he can before he has to call in the contractors he’ll inevitably hover over and yell at.

Anathema’s a natural (after her first year, where she literally deliberated over every single green shoot, talking to each like they could answer her), although she occasionally tends to under-thin. When she does she invariably has some reason for it like _the vines told her it was okay_ and Crowley always wants to argue with her. Then he remembers that he himself tastes dirt and yells at his plants, and he thinks, _hey,_ maybe that’s just the metaphor Anathema uses for herself.

Adam is slow to it, but this is only his second year at suckering. He asks Crowley a lot of questions, but Crowley’s never had a problem with questions. Adam has the eye for it; he just needs to be able to trust himself, and then Crowley will have two other people who can manage small groups of contractors without that desperate itch between his shoulderblades that always shows up when he has to trust someone that isn’t himself. 

May tending is second only to harvest in actual intensity; Crowley has to check a calendar daily because when he’s suckering he’s working twelve or fourteen hours at a stretch, and he often forgets what day of the week it is. Crowley spends his hours walking the rows, pinching off the tiny green shoots when he thinks there are too many, cutting back leaves where he feels they’ll block the sun and the wind, topping the longer shoots and hedging vines that seem to be overstretching themselves.

Some nights he can’t sleep, and he’ll wander out into the vineyard, bare feet and giant hoodie and only the light of the moon and the electric lantern he keeps by his back door. Sunrise will find him deep in the Petit Syrah or the Chard, waking up from a trance he hadn’t even known he had entered, dirt and vine caked under his fingernails and his feet chilled pale.

———

It’s one of these days, when Crowley’s up to his elbows in the sink, scrubbing soil out from under his fingernails, when they fucking show up.

“Boss,” Anathema calls from the tasting bar, and Crowley can tell immediately by her tone of voice (and the fact that she only calls him boss when she’s making a point) that it’s something he isn’t going to like. “Inspectors here for you.”

Ah, _fuck._

“Just a minute,” Crowley yells back, cause he’s not gonna dance to their tune any more than he has to. He finishes washing his hands clean as best he can, dries them, and then takes a moment to swing his hair up into a bun on the top of his head. Of course he’s wearing the dark blue jeans with the tasteful holes in them and a graphic tee under a torn-up hoodie. He hadn’t planned on working the tasting room at all today, and it shows.

Talk about having a nemesis. Nemeses. Multiple nemisises. Whatever.

Inspectors Hastur and Ligur are — well, yes, they’re certified inspectors, they keep up with their paperwork, but they’re independent contractors, meaning they’re inspectors for _hire._ Crowley is 99% positive that it’s Dagon who sends them, sporadically, trying to keep Crowley on his toes. Any sort of inspection failure could affect his insurance rates, which then could affect the terms of his loans; Crowley’s pretty sure he could fight it, legally, because it’s a little bit too much like the fucking wine country mob to be entirely legit. He’s also pretty sure that fighting it legally could cost him the winery. He’d prefer to avoid it altogether.

Just like he would rather avoid Hastur and Ligur altogether, but they always, always ask for him. By name. Legally Anathema, Newt, and Adam can all speak in his name to authorities like inspectors, but that isn’t good enough for those two _demons._

As always, Hastur and Ligur have confused _business professional_ and _working wear_. They’re wearing suit jackets and buttondowns, because that’s professional, but their shirts are covered in dirt and oil. Ligur has an obvious tear up the sleeve of his jacket. Hastur’s shirt has the drips of an obvious coffee stain. They’re as terrible as they look.

“Crowley, Crowley, Crowley,” Ligur says with a sneer.

The thing is, Crowley wouldn’t be so - he isn’t _afraid_ of them, no - concerned about their visits if all was normal. Hastur and Ligur are a couple of posturing idiots, just clever enough to stay certified without retaining any of the knowledge a real inspector should have, and Crowley spent his first turn of existence dealing with wankers like them on a regular basis. They don’t bother him that way. But they do concern him, because they’re just maliciously looking to fail him on something, and even one strike is more than Crowley wants to deal with. He has enough anxiety over the goddamn vines without having to worry about the operation as well.

“Hi, guys,” he says, swaggering his way over there like he’s wearing Prada, rather than grunge he found in the bargain bin at a Target. “Sorry to make you wait.” He makes it absolutely clear that he isn’t sorry at all.

“Hello, Crawly,” Hastur loves that particular joke, and makes sure to remind Crowley how much he loves it every time they meet. “Got a bit of time for us today?”

“Always have a bit of time for my _favorite_ inspectors-for-hire, yes.” Crowley gives them a bow that should look incredibly half-assed. “What’s on the books then, today? Time to examine the bar stools? Check out the toiletsss?”

Behind them, Anathema throws him a warning look. Crowley shakes his head and turns back to Hastur, glad they can’t see him rolling his eyes behind the dark lenses.

“Not dressed up like Mr. Slick, are we?” Ligur lets his gaze trail all the way down to Crowley’s muddy Merrells and then back up. “Back on hard times, Crowley?”

Which is hilarious, because both of them look like they climbed out of a dumpster after a failed business meeting.

“Mmm, you know how it is.” It’s like a game, trying to manage just how sharply he can insult them without crossing the line. “Actual work can be hard on the wardrobe.” He gestures at the blatant tear up Ligur’s sleeve, giving him his most dramatic pout. “You may want to try something less formal next time.”

“Hey,” says Ligur, actually sounding insulted. “This is my _working blazer._ ”

Hastur gives them both a nasty smile and raises the clipboard in his hand. “Standard quarterly inspection,” he tells Crowley, despite the fact that they both know there’s no standard quarterly anything. (Crowley files his paperwork and licenses on time, and arranges the required audits with a real government board. He’s not an idiot.)

Crowley’s always wondered what would happen if he were to deny them access. The thing is that they are certified inspectors, and they’ve been hired by someone to do a job. He’s tempted, certainly. If nothing else, it could reveal who is pulling their strings (Dagon), and might give him enough weight to press her into taking a step back. That all sounds like a headache, though, and Crowley has enough headaches in his life. Some day he’ll have the energy to take up that fight, but it isn’t today.

“Well, I’m not legally required to give you more than a half hour,” he says instead. They play these games with each other; Hastur pushes, Crowley pushes back, Ligur makes vague threats and supportive noises. “Let’s get started.”

“Oh, you don’t have to follow us around.” Hastur sneers. “We can handle it on our own.”

_Not on my fucking life,_ Crowley thinks. He doesn’t trust either of them farther than he could throw them one-handed wearing heels. “That’s not very hospitable,” he says instead, and throws an arm out in a jerky welcome gesture. “What’s on your list, then? Deeds of the day?”

Most of their sloppily made-up checklist is equipment-based this time, so Crowley leads them the long way back to the operations building. He leans back against the wall and watches as Ligur and Hastur absolutely embarrass themselves by not knowing which piece of equipment is which.

“Crawly!” Hastur finally snaps. “We have to check the grounding wire on the grape tables! Which is it?”

“Nope,” Crowley says as Ligur’s hand darts out to touch something. “Nope,” he repeats, and then “nope,” as Ligur expectantly moves his hand around the equipment, pointing at different bits. “Still not the grounding wire,” Crowley continues, pushing himself off the wall and dragging himself across the room, hands in his pockets. “Nope. Ligur, christ, that’s a wheel.”

“Well, it’s _on_ the ground,” Ligur says, defensively, but he stands up and folds his arms across his chest, looking crossly at Crowley.

This is _such_ a fucking farce. Crowley takes a second to daydream about a world where he’s financially stable enough to actually call their bluff, to throw down his hand and call all the way up to Dagon, tell her to cut this shit out. Then he sighs, and opens up the access panel on the motor.

“Grounding wire is green,” he drawls, stepping back so that Hastur and Ligur can both see. “Don’t—! Fucking touch it. It’s still plugged in.” _You idiots,_ Crowley adds, as Hastur pulls his hand back with a muffled curse.

Ligur grumbles. Hastur continues to stare at it for a long moment before be mumbles something like, “Well that’s alright, then,” and scribbles on the checklist. Crowley’s pretty sure he has filled in at least three lines with very badly drawn dicks.

“C’mon, then,” Crowley says, reaching out for the clipboard. Hastur hugs it to his chest with something like a hiss, and Crowley thanks Satan for the sunglasses, which hide the fact that he is rolling his eyes all the way to the moon.

———

It’s around dinnertime a few days later when Crowley feels his phone vibrate against his thigh. (His leggings have those great thigh pockets for runners to keep their phones and keys and whatever. Ha. Runners. Crowley’s never run a day in his life; he _saunters,_ thanks.) His fingers smell like fresh greenery and he smears some of it across the glass as he swipes it open.

_Newt: ur frnd s here_

“Anathema,” Crowley whines. “Can you _please_ make your boyfriend type properly.”

“Oh,” she chirps, far too happy for someone who has been out here since 8:30 this morning. “He can, he just doesn’t.”

_**I’m assuming those are words. Please do try again.** _

**__**

_ur friend is here. the one w the blog_

Ah. For a second, Crowley considers having Newt show Aziraphale out to the vineyard. He’s fairly sure the man would love to see the process; he can see Aziraphale now, hastily writing, trying to hold that stupid notebook still with one hand. But there’s something a bit - raw - about seeing Aziraphale, here, in his terroir. Crowley doesn’t want to look at it, so he shan’t.

“Alright, let’s wind it up,” he tells Anathema. Adam’s off at another client, and not a single other member of The Them had seemed at all interested in coming to thin out tiny green shootlings and occasionally trim back thick chunks of vine. It’s just the two of them. “Time to go save your better half.”

Anathema just looks at him, her hands idly wiping themselves clean, and a low smile spreads across her face. “He’s here, isn’t he. Aziraphale.”

Crowley has no idea why he blushes at that. It doesn’t mean anything; just means that Aziraphale’s here for a drink and probably looking for company. “It’s also half six, Anathema, keep up. We’ve got a lot done today.”

“He _is_ here,” she replies with a grin, dusting her hands off over the folds of her skirt. (Anathema, being nothing but an enigma wrapped in gothy-nerd clothing, works the vineyards in skirts. Crowley isn’t sure whether it’s a personal preference, a desire to wear what women must have worn in the gardens for centuries before, or just an unfortunate fashion statement. He rather likes it. There’s some kind of gothic tragic romance, he’s found, to running around the vineyard in skirts.)

“Well, yes,” Crowley says, a little more snippy than he intended. “So let’s not make him wait, hmm?”

He doesn’t have to glance over to know that Anathema is leveling her _look_ on him: it’s the one she says can show her someone’s aura, or read their fortune. Whether that’s true or not, it’s a look that carries a lot of judgment in it. Crowley doesn’t need that _negative energy_ in his life, right now.

They stop in the coat room to scrub up to their elbows. Crowley likes wearing the vineyard, really, but he can’t really shed dirt in a public winery that serves food, and it would be just his luck to have Hastur and Ligur sitting there — oh, hell, next to his angel. Nope, that’s not the fuck happening. Not on Crowley’s watch.

Of course, he emerges from the back room with his dripping hands tumbling his hair back into a tie, sees Aziraphale sitting by himself, and realizes he just thought _my angel_ at him, which is the most disgusting thought Crowley’s had since he was twelve. He needs to, like, bleach out his brain and do something very much not sappy right now.

Then Aziraphale smiles at him and Crowley kind of shoves that all aside because Aziraphale looks oddly upset. The smile is genuine, sure, but there’s some kind of resigned note around his eyes that Crowley’s never really noted before. “Hey, angel,” he says as he approaches, and watches as Aziraphale fondly rolls his eyes. “How’s it going?” Crowley leans on the bar, elbows braced, trying not too look too concerned.

“Oh, you know.” Aziraphale sighs, rolling his eyes again. “I’ve just — oh, Crowley,” he says suddenly, as if taking in something surprising. “You look _exhausted._ ”

“Oh, whatever,” Crowley says, although all Aziraphale has to do is give him that _look_ \- that one that’s a bit too tender for acquaintances like them - and it’s like the days land heavy on his shoulders. Twelve, fourteen hours out on the land, less than five hours of sleep, anxiety at a constant low boil coming up from his feet like weights tied around his ankles. “Spring.” He makes a tired gesture towards the back of the room, indicating all ten goddamned acres of this place. “Lots of work. How are you really?”

Aziraphale opens his mouth as if he’s going to say _Fine,_ and Crowley takes a second to flash a look over his sunglasses, and Aziraphale sighs and kind of melts. “Oh, it’s been a _day,_ let me tell you. Over a glass?”

Crowley glances around. Newt’s happily talking to the couple on one side, who appear to be doing tasting flights; Brian’s out chatting with a small group sitting at the cafe tables, who are here for dinner. The sight of the food hits him and Crowley suddenly realizes he’s starving. He isn’t sure he remembered lunch. Sometimes he doesn’t.

“Yeah,” he says, a little distracted, and that’s when Anathema swoops in.

“You both look like you could use a break,” she says, and her voice is all hard kind no-nonsense. “Crowley, why don’t you get out of here? Take Aziraphale to somewhere _else_ with good wine and food, for a change.”

“Anathema,” Crowley warns her, because that sounds almost like a date, but all she does is smile benignly at him.

“You know,” she tells Aziraphale, not sorry at all, “he hasn’t been off this property in at least two weeks. He’s been going from his house to the fields to the tasting room, and back. Pulling insane hours. He’s going to collapse soon.”

“I don’t collapse,” Crowley announces, but apparently no one is listening to him.

Aziraphale turns to him with a bit of his usual sparkle back in his eyes and says, “No pressure at all, but oh, I’d love to try anywhere you recommend. I’d be delighted.” Crowley could thank Anathema for getting some of those shadows off of Aziraphale’s face, except that he’s going to kill her immediately afterwards, because she isn’t being subtle at all.

“Right,” says Crowley. “Ngk. Sure.”

Aziraphale beams, and Anathema’s smile is incredibly smug. Crowley just shakes his head at her, and the smile goes even broader, and he knows Anathema’s rewarding herself a point on whatever scoreboard she keeps between them. (Honestly Crowley probably owes her a few points, lord knows he was insufferable when she and Newt were working their deal out, but — oh, hold on. This is _nothing_ like Anathema and Newt. This is Crowley and a temporary friend who’s only in the area to write a famous novel and go back to public blogging life in six months.)

He sighs. “Let me grab my jacket.”

———

Aziraphale makes suitably lovely noises over the Bentley and suitably horrified noises over Crowley’s driving, which suits Crowley just fine.

He’s taking them to _The Tan One Pub and Grille._ It’s a little local place, big enough that they get some of the local tourism in, but it isn’t a winery itself. It’s just a little pub and restaurant, maybe a fifteen minute drive away, and it’s where Crowley goes the few times a year that he wants to be out and about. He usually gets all of the social time he could possibly want at _Ecdyses_ \- whether it’s Anathema and Newt, The Them, or the tasting room - but every now and then Crowley gets the itch to go disappear in a crowd and have a drink and a meal like he’s just a visitor. _The Tan One_ ’s where he goes when he needs to do that.

They’re lucky enough to find two seats tucked towards the end of the bar that curves through the room. Crowley always prefers the bar to a table; service is usually better, and there’s a different atmosphere at the bar of any place here in the valley; customers get tables and get a feel for the place, but one thing Crowley has learnt is that the bar is the heart of any establishment that has one. He likes being up front, catching the pulse not only from the customers and the dinner crowd, but from the staff as well.

And it doesn’t hurt that Aziraphale seems enthralled, looking over the wine list, scooting his stool a bit closer to Crowley’s so that he can lean in and speak over the general din of the place. “Is this a place you come to often?” Aziraphale calls, a few beautiful inches away from Crowley.

Why can’t he ever goddamn _help himself;_ he leans in, elbow on the bar, his foot already resting on one of the rungs on Aziraphale’s stool. He’s thrown his leather jacket over a long black tee and the leggings he had on before, with his big thumping motorcycle boots, and his hair in a high bun; the sunglasses make it hard to see, but there are enough people here that he just _knows_ someone will make a stupid comment if he takes them off. “Yeah, sometimes,” he tells Aziraphale. “It’s a good place for locals. They have bands sometimes.”

“Oh, I love live music,” Aziraphale says, turning into him with one of those happy, blinding smiles. “What sort do they have here? I may drag you back.”

_Drag you back_ sounds too much like a date (that Crowley wants, apparently, god damn _everything_ in his life), but at this point, he’s exhausted and hungry and absolutely weak for anything this man suggests. “Here,” he says, flipping over the paper menu in front of him. “They have a schedule, although it’s by band name. What kind of music do you, er. Enjoy?”

“Oh, a moment,” Aziraphale says, because the bartender has approached them. She recognizes Crowley with a nod, and turns to Aziraphale with a smile. “Do you recommend anything?” Aziraphale asks him, all sunshine smile and sparkling eyes.

Sometimes Crowley comes here just because _Ecdyses_ is on their wine list. For some reason seeing his bottles printed out there - some by glass and some by bottle only - can sometimes reassure that tidal wave of anxiety at the base of his spine. It isn’t like he buys his own wine here, but seeing it on the menu as an option this place has chosen to offer is surprisingly reassuring.

“Right,” he says, drawling it out and taking his time glancing down the menu even though he knows what he’s going to order already. “Two waters, right, and the fried brussels sprouts. I’ll have the RPI Cab, and the Permissions Pinot for him.”

The bartender smiles, nods, and leaves. Aziraphale glances over at him as she brings them two full water glasses. “I _had_ asked for recommendations, not a decision,” he says, but it’s far more teasing than it would be if he meant it.

Crowley grins back at him, having a sip of the ice cold water. It reminds him, from his brain down his spine, that he can’t just relax here. “Don’t you trust my taste at least a bit at this point, Aziraphale?”

To his surprise Aziraphale blushes just a bit, a rosy pink appearing at his cheeks as he ducks his eyes away and then turns back. “I suppose I must do,” he murmurs, looking delectable, and Crowley drinks more water in a small, enthusiastic panic.

———

Their meals have arrived - fish and chips for Crowley, who won’t be able to eat a whole meal at this point, having skipped lunch; a shepherd’s pie for Aziraphale - and their wine is steadily disappearing. Aziraphale had let Crowley order for him as well, and Crowley had picked open his tastes with a number of questions revealing that while Aziraphale was certainly capable of gourmet food tasting, he had a soft spot for rich bar entrees with a twist. The shepherd’s pie here comes with goat cheese mixed into the mashed potatoes, and Crowley is rewarded by a series of indecent noises as Aziraphale takes his first couple bites.

“So,” Aziraphale says, halfway through their meal when they’ve both been refilled on wine. “You looked rather tired, earlier. What have you been up to, out in your wild acres?”

Crowley grins and eats another chip laden with ketchup. “Spring is a hard season,” he tells Aziraphale. “Spring and fall, y’know, those are the seasons of work. Summer’s a lot of watching and waiting. Winter’s the same but with less to watch. Anyway, budburst is just the start. You have to, y’know, direct the growth afterwards. Suckering, it’s called.”

Aziraphale, thankfully, doesn’t have any kind of notebook - although Crowley’s sure he’s storing notes behind those bright blue-grey eyes. “Tell me about it.” It’s more an order and a demand, but Crowley feels himself wanting to explain it anyway. Hells, he’d pull all of his knowledge out of his brain and display it around him like a peacock, just to get Aziraphale to look. (What the _fuck,_ Crowley.)

“So budburst requires direction,” Crowley starts. He’s moved on to a lovely Zinfandel from Rodney Strong, which tastes of dirt but in the best way possible. “If you let everything grow, you can starve out the vine, right? Too much potential, too many possibilities, and not a one of them gets enough nutrients. You have to get in there, thin it out, so that the bits that grow can get enough from the root structure to be fully fed.”

“But how on earth do you know?”

“Wee-eell,” Crowley says, and it catches in his throat a bit. He’s picking at his second piece of fish more than eating it; days like this he really only needs a few bites to fill his stomach, for whatever reason. “I mean, you don’t know entirely, exactly. You just kind of, ehhh--” He ends up making this weird noise in the back of his throat and gesturing in the air, trying to spell out the curve of the existing vine and the places where the buds have sprouted, fully aware that he’s probably just making nonsense pictures with his hands. “You look at what’s sprouting, and you look at the layout of the vine, and you sometimes can get this picture in your head of where there’s space to grow and where there isn’t. And then you just, well.” He makes a pinching motion between his thumb and the nail of his middle finger. “You sucker off the ones you don’t need.”

“Fascinating,” Aziraphale breathes, and Crowley’s breath gets caught in his stupid throat. “You’ll have to show me.” Aziraphale’s face is flushed from wine and from the richness of the shepherd’s pie - plus the fried brussels sprouts and the pretzel bites they’d ordered as appetizers. This had all been taken in against wines Crowley had continued to suggest for Aziraphale. There was something - fuck, there were no words for it other than _teasing_ \- about the other man’s willingness to wait for Crowley’s suggestion, and Crowley found himself playing right into it. Any gap he could possibly find, he wanted to be the one filling it: food, wine, recommendations, even the blues cover band they had tentatively identified as an event to meet up at next week. Crowley was swimming rather dumb with it; he was enjoying the ability to recommend things for Aziraphale, to control his experience here and make sure it was as perfect as Crowley could make it.

(And why? No one was looking at that question. Crowley was well aware that A.Z. Fell was done here in six months and would return to LA for the next step in his writing career. Maybe Crowley just wanted to make sure Aziraphale got most of the information he needed, or that he had pleasant memories of the trip as a whole. Maybe they’d exchange emails.)

“I can do that if you really want to see,” he offers, casually, as if he hasn’t been dying for Aziraphale’s footprints in his soil for weeks now.

“Oh, I can take pictures.” Aziraphale looks inordinately pleased. “They’re always after me to take some of my own for the blog.”

Crowley, who has maybe spent hours combing through _A Taste of Heaven_ at this point, frowns and says, “There are usually pictures on your entries, aren’t there?”

“Warlock,” Aziraphale tells him. “Or stock photos. Apparently FTA owns a few photographers who just index all their work and wait for Uriel or Sandalphon to call.”

Aziraphale’s glistening mood has dimmed the slightest bit. Crowley’s sure he wouldn’t have noticed at all had he not been so enthralled in Aziraphale’s company, but he has noticed, so he says, “There it is. You said you’ve had a _day._ Out with it, angel.”

“But this is so nice,” Aziraphale says with a wince. “I’d feel like I was ruining an otherwise lovely night.”

Crowley stammers, unsure which of those parts he wants to reply to: _this is not a date,_ he tells himself, even though his heart is stupidly pounding. “I, ehhhh, no need to get into your business,” he manages finally, “but it _is_ a lovely evening, innit, and that means you can, y’know, spill whatever’s on your mind. If you need.”

Aziraphale just looks at him for a long moment. It’s the kind of measured look that feels as if Aziraphale’s reading something on his face that Crowley doesn’t even know is there, and he tries not to self consciously squirm as Aziraphale watches. But then Aziraphale breathes out, as if making a decision, and turns back to the bar, lifting his glass and squaring his shoulders.

“Gabriel — that’s my boss, right, or... maybe my manager. I’m not even sure. I’m not even sure _Gabriel’s_ sure. Anyway. He’s in charge of me at FTA.” Aziraphale takes a sip. “We had a bit of, um, a quarrel today. About my book.”

Who the fuck still uses the word _quarrel?_ Crowley rests his elbow on the bar, tips his cheek into his palm. “Do tell.”

“Oh, I’ve written some bits and pieces I want to be the first chapter, and Gabriel _hates_ it,” Aziraphale says in a rush. “Now, he doesn’t know quality writing from toilet tissue, mind you, but he says the _feel_ is all wrong. The topic. It isn’t ... _commercial_ enough.”

Crowley grunts and his hand jerks as if he’s going to throw his drink in Gabriel’s face.

Aziraphale takes his noise as an invitation to continue. “I know what I _want_ to do,” he starts, and then gives a self-deprecating little laugh. “No, I guess that’s — only partially true. I don’t know what I want this book to be at _all_ , but I _do_ know what I want to _write._ And I have been.” He sounds incredibly defensive, so Crowley leans in a bit more, trying to catch Aziraphale’s eyes. He wants to take off his sunglasses, so that he can make sure Aziraphale’s looking at him rather than seeing this Gabriel or anything awful, but he just - he doesn’t - he isn’t ready to do that in public.

“Did he say what’s wrong with it?”

Aziraphale’s shoulders hunch over on himself and Crowley immediately regrets asking. “Aziraphale, this isn’t snappy enough. It isn’t punchy enough. Your blog has a theme, an attitude. This doesn’t have the same rhythm to it at all.” He’s doing a terribly accurate impression of some American accent, the kind a businessman might have on one of those sitcoms that are all interchangeable. “It needs to be more _marketable!_ What’s your brand!”

The slump deepens and Aziraphale sounds miserable as he says in his own accent, “I don’t _want_ this book to be my blog for five-hundred pages. I want it to be a _book._ ”

“I don’t know the man, remember,” says Crowley, trying to be tactful, “but Gabriel sounds like a bit of a wanker.” He does slip his sunglasses down his nose then, meeting Aziraphale’s eyes. “Write what you want to write, angel. It’s you. I’m sure it’ll be good.”

Aziraphale laughs, a little forlorn sound, and takes a long drink of his wine. “Gabriel can be difficult, sure, but this trip - this entire thing - it’s all his doing. The book has to be something _he_ likes, or it isn’t going to succeed.”

Crowley frowns. He remembers having bosses like this, who think they have the pulse of the market and only want their employees to put out exactly what they’re asked for. He thinks about the links in all of the _A Taste of Heaven_ blog posts he’s read, the photo captions it’s obvious Aziraphale didn’t write, and wonders how much of his friend’s creative spirit has already suffered.

“Anyway,” Aziraphale says suddenly, sitting up straight. “I’m not letting that get in the way of our evening.” He pauses, and then his face relaxes, into a genuine (if crooked) smile. “But thank you for letting me get that off my chest.”

Crowley feels oddly warmed by it, especially since he hasn’t really done much. “Look, angel, I don’t know much about the book market. Don’t really read books. But I’m pretty sure you could post a live transcript of you eating cake and drinking Zinfandel and it would do well. You know what you’re talking about.” He ducks his head, suddenly almost shy, and he hasn’t been shy since he was four years old. “Fascinating to listen to, really.”

“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale begins, and there’s something shimmering in it, something _too_ grateful: something that Crowley’s a bit afraid to hear, now, feeling all mixed up like he does. “That’s terribly kind of you to say.”

“Not kind,” Crowley tells him, and he resettles into his seat, expression hidden behind sunglasses and legs akimbo. “Don’t ruin my reputation, angel.”

Aziraphale shakes his head, but his smile is fond - so fond - and Crowley thinks, _well, fuck._

———

Anthony J. Crowley tends to his life like he tends to his vineyard: ruthlessly, with plenty of yelling and swearing and the underlying bell-ringing of anxiety that defines his days. Normally when things like this crop up - odd offshoots of feelings he’s really rather done with - he takes them, prunes them, suckers them off at the branch.

It may be too late. He has, somehow, missed the tempering season on this, the way that Aziraphale has worked his way into Crowley’s chest. He may not be able to cut back the growth without killing the vine entirely.

He should be more upset about this, Crowley thinks.

He should be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please understand i'm so worn out right now and i would love nothing so much as a comment -- y'all seriously leave the best comments ever, it's so much fun reading them! To new readers, HI, i'm glad you're taking a chance on something this LONG and I hope you're enjoying a glass of wine as you read <3


	8. It Begins At The Mouth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale Z. Fell is a writer: he knows about telling stories. Aziraphale is also a master of lying to himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay so FIRST i am LATE and it HAPPENS more on that in the endnote
> 
> second oh my GOD you guys leave the BEST comments and i LOVE answering them lskdghljdfh i would like all of you to marry me
> 
> (this fic has the most comments of anything. it has more comments than kudos. ldjghljsdg i love you.)
> 
> third! this one was a struggle! it's getting tricky to write Aziraphale because he can be a somewhat unreliable narrator when it comes to himself. for all that Crowley's a disaster with legs he is at least upfront about it. Az is very good at tricking himself. made this one extra dumb to work with although i am exceptionally pleased with how it turned out.

_It all begins in the mouth._

_What a pretentious way to start a chapter! And yet this is the most straightforward way to say it: all of this comes back to the mouth._

_I certainly will be the first to reassure my readers that the enjoyment of a good wine is enough on its own. There is no need to step down into the microdetails of flavor and vintage if you simply enjoy the taste and the act. Wine itself carries the taste of the grape, the feel of the soil, the heat of the sun and chill of the rain. You do not need to be able to plot and label to enjoy the product as it is. What I describe here is an art and a science, and it can certainly be learnt, but: consider it the icing on an already delectable cake, or an accessory on a perfectly lovely outfit._

_Wine is a community. That one sip carries so many things along with it. It is enough to take and drink, to swallow the sacrament of the vineyard, to enjoy without further analysis. At times I myself will just partake, without comparison or definition, because a glass of wine in hand is like having the clever laughter of a friend on demand. It’s a warm fire and a soothing summer rain. Wine is enough._

_It begins in the mouth. Curious, isn’t it, that this particular art is the act of linking the flavors on our tastebuds with the language inside our thoughts? We drink, and then we speak. We name these things, describe them, write them down with ink on paper. A wine can taste incredible, but it’s when we start to speak of it that it opens up and grows. Here is the blackberry; here is the burnt-leather of tannins. Here the buttery peach; here the acid of the grapefruit; the sweetness of honeysuckle. We tie it to other living things - fruits, flowers, spices and woods - like metaphors. The poetry is in the mouth._

_[put an example here for Gabriel, later]_

_The first thing to understand about wine tasting is that it is, in fact, a trick between your mouth and the art of the words we use to describe a taste. You cannot put raspberry and plum and oak into a glass and make a Cabernet. There are no peaches in your Chardonnay. What you’re looking for is something_ like. _Does the taste in the glass remind you of eating a raspberry? Does it taste like currant pie? Are there hints of the soil, of pepper or coriander, of smoke or leather? The flavor on your tongue will remind you of something. It begins in the mouth and evolves into the throat. Use your words._

_Oh bugger shit Gabriel is going to hate this entire section._

———

A.Z. Fell is not having a very good day.

“Just pick one,” Warlock says to him, with the kind of worn-out tone only an assistant who has tried every option at his disposal only to have his elderly, crotchety boss reject every single one can use.

“I don’t want my face on the blog,” Aziraphale tells him again. He can feel the headache starting at the base of his skull. “I’ve already been recognized _twice_ out here and we haven’t even gotten into Napa.”

“Satan wept,” says Warlock. “Zira, I know, I get it, okay? But Michael’s set on it. Just one photo.”

“Michael can - can go - Michael can go eat _dirt_ ,” says Aziraphale, well aware that words are failing him.

Warlock turns the tablet right-side up and starts flicking though again. “Az. For fuck’s sake. Pick the one you hate the least and stop being such a miserable shit. Please.”

Aziraphale drops his face into his hands. He has no idea why it bothers him to much to put a face to his professional name, but oh, he hates it.

Blogging his adventures in wine country has been a huge success. His readership has exploded, and there are now so many comments on his posts that Warlock has to filter them, sending Aziraphale only the most interesting ones to read and occasionally reply to. The problem is, many of his readers are in the general area of California, and Aziraphale is afraid that if they discover where he and Warlock are going - let alone where they’re staying, what a _nightmare -_ he’ll never have a moment of peace again.

He had been recognized by a vintner at _St. Saubrey’s_ , but it was a smaller place, and they’d managed to have as fascinating a conversation as the kind he’s been having with Crowley; that had been alright. The second time it had been a tourist and his family, probably the kind of person who’d googled _wine expert blogs_ before coming on the trip in order to feel educated. They’d glommed right onto Aziraphale and Warlock and had absolutely ruined their evening at _Paradise Ridge._

“I’m sorry I’m a miserable shit,” he tells Warlock, and he can feel the tension in the room melt away.

“I’m sorry they’re being dicks about it.” Warlock idly flips though the shots he’s been collecting of Aziraphale on his tablet. Warlock has his extended permission to take whatever photos he likes, and he’s very good at catching Aziraphale in flattering moments - as flattering as they can be, with his pale hair and full cheeks - and it isn’t that the pictures are _bad._ “I can argue, but it’s easier to let them win this one.”

It’s the feeling that ‘they’ are winning far too many, recently. Gabriel’s had nothing but feedback for Aziraphale’s bits and pieces of the book, all of them cheerfully negative. The growing blog audience just has Aziraphale more on edge. It’s an awkward place to be at the moment, and it’s already May. If the concept in his head isn’t what Gabriel is looking for, then how on earth will he manage to find something that works?

It’s just that Aziraphale has so _few_ lines. He does his best to be accommodating - more than! - on nearly everything Gabriel asks of him.

“Here.” Warlock slides the tablet over. “This one.”

It’s Aziraphale in profile, his eyes shut, head thrown back in laughter. He’s at _Ecdyses,_ two glasses of red in front of him, and Crowley’s shoulder and arm are at the edge of the photograph, blurred. Of all the photos, Aziraphale thinks, maybe he doesn’t mind that one so much. He looks relaxed in a way he doesn’t in any of the other photos. It isn’t a coincidence that Crowley’s there, making it happen.

“Fine,” Aziraphale says. His finger comes out to trace his own face, a bit in amazement. He knows he isn’t much to look at, but he looks _happy_ in this one, in that sort of way he doesn’t often see in himself.

Warlock gives him that smirk he has when Aziraphale has done something obvious, but says nothing, just nods and takes the tablet back to add the photograph to Aziraphale’s latest article.

———

To make up for it, Warlock takes him into Sonoma Valley and ignores Michael’s list of suggestions; instead they wind their way down side roads and dirt paths, looking for the out-of-the-way places that delight Aziraphale so. He loves the big roads with winery after winery, of course, but there’s something so _fun_ about _finding_ places, and they’re often quite good.

Their first stop is at _Bueno Vista_ , which is apparently a historical site as well as a winery; Warlock drifts around taking photographs while Aziraphale chats with the tender behind the tasting bar. They’ve a fine selection of Chardonnay, Pinot Noir, and Zinfandel, but it’s the Grand Reserve Cabernet Sauvignon that Aziraphale absolutely falls in love with: it’s full of spices that complement the dark red berries in his mouth, almost like the wine has been mulled, or flavored with some sort of rich chocolate dessert. It’s impeccable. He purchases two bottles to take home, along with some of their Selection Pinot Noirs.

(Is it uncouth to ask a viticulturalist to come taste wines he hasn’t grown and made? It can’t be _that_ taboo, Aziraphale thinks, remembering that Crowley had happily had whatever they’d opened the night they’d fallen asleep in his sitting room. He just wants to know what it is that’s different in the grapes that makes these Pinot Noirs so _bright_ with red fruits: is it soil? Sun? Crowley would know.)

From there they drift down a side road and into _Patrick Rose Sonoma,_ a delightfully small winery that, Aziraphale learns, purchases most of their grapes from vineyards who don’t intend to process the wines themselves. He’s learnt a bit about this side of the business, but he happily takes notes as his bartenders, Delia and Connor, explain how they choose the regions of grapes to buy and how they blend them into their wines. All of their reds are a bit light for Aziraphale’s tastes - he prefers them as bitter as possible, thick with tannins - but the whites are crisp and clear and will be perfect on a hot day. He buys three.

At this point Aziraphale is happily buzzed; a proper wine tasting isn’t much wine, to be fair, but he does like to sample in comparisons: flights that are all the same type, for example, or a flight of dark reds, that he can taste against each other. Warlock’s grinning as Aziraphale half-flops into the passenger seat with a satisfied sigh.

“Another?” Warlock asks him, but Aziraphale’s day-drunk and happy and ready to head home; he thinks he has another article and maybe some more book words in him, especially if he can open up one of today’s Pinot Noirs for additional _inspiration._

———

_Most tasting wheels, while generic, are excellent places to start. The first step is to learn to sort the flavors in your mouth into basic categories: is it fruit, floral, spice? Soil or mineral?_

_You aren’t going to know at first. Understand: this is okay._

_Enjoy it. Enjoy not knowing the difference between currants and plums. Enjoy the spritz of the mineral tang without being able to name it. Spend your time listening to the wines instead: listen with your tongue and taste buds until you can hear and feel what they’re trying to be._

_Learn the differences between a Cabernet Sauvignon and a Pinot Noir. Identify the differences between two different Chardonnays. Compare a Pinot Gris with a Gewürztraminer. You’ll start to recognize when a wine has a vanilla story to tell, or a smoky whisper, or a bouquet of strawberries to offer._

_Is this what they want? Is this the book you want to read? There isn’t a story that can teach someone to taste a wine; only experience, and discussion, and knowledge. I can’t write a book about how to do what I do. I can really only write the results and hope it inspires someone to learn on their own. It all begins with the mouth, and every tongue is different._

_Even Crowley has said he doesn’t taste for berries or roses. He’s the vintner and gardener: he looks for the soil, the dew, the sun. I wonder whether I can learn to taste it; whether my mouth can learn the tricks of his._

_Oh dear god what am i writing._

Aziraphale realizes, a few hours and a bottle of wine later, that he may be a bit too drunk to work on the book tonight.

———

Crowley invites them down a few days later, saying _Ecdyses_ is empty and they may as well come help finish up Brian’s croissant sandwiches, because they won’t last. Warlock happily drives; apparently his little group of friends is staging some sort of nonsense with video games in the break room, and Aziraphale rationalizes that if Warlock is attending, he should as well.

He can’t help but watch for - and note - the way Crowley’s face lights up when they enter. The hopeful thing in his chest wrenches a bit with a warm tense glow. Crowley has his sunglasses on, and he isn’t exactly smiling, but the reaction flashes across his face nonetheless: relief, with a bit of joy, a comfortable relaxation of the jaw. Aziraphale wouldn’t have seen it, except that he’s watching for it.

His instincts know, even if he won’t think about it yet.

Aziraphale settles into what is becoming _his_ stool and looks around. He can hear Warlock’s chums in the back rooms. Anathema is puttering around at the refrigerators, rearranging something, and there’s a banging from the kitchen that probably signifies either Newt or Brian. And there’s Crowley, _now_ grinning at him as he sits, leaning over his elbows across the bar.

Crowley’s dressed for today’s surprising blast of heat: a loose black silk shirt, so sheer Aziraphale is deliberately not looking at his chest, with the sleeves rolled up past his elbows. His jeans are a charcoal grey and his hair is pulled half-back and he looks delectable. “Hey, angel,” he says, and Aziraphale feels his face flush.

He’s wearing a short-sleeved linen shirt with his usual trousers and feels oddly exposed, even though he’s quite sure he’d be able to see Crowley’s nipples if he were to look. He settles further into the stool with a happy little sigh. “Hello, Crowley.”

“What’s your flavor tonight?”

“Oh, host’s choice,” Aziraphale tells him, just to watch that little smile bloom across those thin lips.

He’s acknowledged before that Crowley’s certainly a good-looking man. But for some reason it’s hitting harder now, this warm day in May: Aziraphale can watch Crowley’s arms through the silk, shifting as he pours, and he can feel it stirring in his chest behind the fondness.

Aziraphale has always appreciated a good aesthetic. He admires handsome people all the time with a generally well-meaning air. But he’s somehow surprised at the way the _attraction_ is suddenly stirring in his gut, now, watching Crowley pick up two wine glasses and bring them his way.

(Surprised? Suddenly? He’s been attracted to Crowley from the _very_ beginning. Aziraphale knows. But he prefers this narrative, where it’s crept up on him, because it lets him pretend he’s been a perfect gentleman.)

“Take a picture, angel,” Crowley tells him, grin going sly, and Aziraphale rolls his eyes. He isn’t quite too sorry to be caught at it, though, because it allows Crowley to give him an eye-over in return. Aziraphale preens at that, even if he knows Crowley’s just doing it for fun.

“Don’t think you’ve had the Sauvignon Blanc yet,” Crowley says as he sets the glasses down. “Lion’s Den. 2015. Not my best, but not a bad year for it, all things considered.”

Aziraphale swirls it around to watch the lees. It’s light, possibly paler than any other wine he’s had from _Ecdyses_ so far. He can smell the brilliant tang of stainless steel aging, alongside citrus and the tart bite of a bright green apple. “Oh, this is _zesty._ ”

Crowley snorts and says, “Did you really just say the word _zesty_ out loud,” but Aziraphale isn’t listening, because he’s taken a sip and - as always - the wine flavors are slowly unfurling into an explosion on his tongue.

It’s nearly _fizzy_ the way it unfolds: sharp, but in the best way a white can be, cutting through Aziraphale’s taste buds with bright bold acid. He can taste the _greenness_ that a Sauv Blanc usually carries underneath it: freshly cut grass, possibly the neutral wet of celery. The undertones carry its sparkling flavors across the palate, and by the time he’s swallowed, Aziraphale feels like he’s just had a shot of espresso - not in taste, but in a way where he feels more awake than he did before.

Crowley, as usual, is watching him. Aziraphale can feel those eyes as they track the twisting of his mouth, the movement of his throat as he swallows. He wants to think it’s flattering, but how could a creature like Crowley be at all interested in someone like himself? Crowley’s watching for his reaction, obviously, not for his pleasure.

“That’s certainly something different,” he tells Crowley, with residual taste zinging across his tongue. “Most of your wines don’t _shout_ quite like that.”

Crowley cackles. “That would be the early harvest,” he tells Aziraphale. “2015 everything was coming early so we jumped on the Sauv as early as possible to give the other grapes as long as we could. Early Sauv Blanc has a thinner skin, less sugars, more sharpness. It’s very... up-front.”

“That’s a good phrase,” Aziraphale tells him, taking another tentative sip. “This has to be _stellar_ in the heat.”

“‘S why I poured it,” Crowley says, making a gesture that encompasses Aziraphale’s short sleeves and his own - translucent - shirt before ending in a knowing smirk. “How are you handling our first bit of the heat wave?”

Aziraphale grew up in London, where 65F is average and 80F is stifling. “I’m not quite sure I would survive your summers without air conditioning,” he tells Crowley, “but this small piece of it is quite comfortable, as long as it doesn’t linger.”

“Won’t stick around now,” Crowley says, taking a long sip. “But we’ll break the nineties in July or August, you’ll see.”

Aziraphale shudders dramatically. “And I’ll be here, where it’s reasonable.” _Or at home,_ his brain says, but he’s sure Crowley understands what he means.

“Wanted to do something different with this one,” Crowley tells him, swirling his own glass. “The 2016 isn’t nearly as - bright - but ... so the Sauv Blanc is one of a few places here that’s high-density planted. The Syrah is too, and a bit of the Pinot. It changes the way we harvest them. Have to make some very quick decisions.”

Aziraphale takes another sip and swirls it around in his mouth. Sometimes that can change a taste somewhat; making sure the wine hits every section of the mouth’s taste buds, letting each fraction of the flavor resonate fully. He gestures with a hand for Crowley to go on, but the other man raises an eyebrow and smiles.

“Will you still be here in September?”

There’s something in Crowley’s voice that makes Aziraphale swallow quickly and glance up at the other man. It’s almost like - Crowley’s almost _too_ casual, the way he’s leaning against the bar and not looking at Aziraphale and keeping his voice remarkably even. Aziraphale wants to think he’s imagining it, but he’s always been good at reading people, and he can’t really ignore the voice telling him that this is a real question.

“Yes,” he says, and it comes out softer than he means to. “September’s the end of the stay. We leave some time in early October.”

Crowley stares at him for a second and Aziraphale wishes he could see Crowley’s eyes behind those glasses. He can’t read _this_ response, and he desperately wants to.

“Good,” Crowley says, decisively, straightening up as if he’s decided something. “You’ll see harvest, then. Some of it, anyway. You can even come help. It’ll be grand.”

And Aziraphale hears the same thing in Crowley’s voice, that forced-casual note that doesn’t quite match up with the way he feels Crowley looking at him. He could be imagining all of this. (He doesn’t think he is.)

“I’d quite like that, my dear,” Aziraphale tells him, and he can’t even lie to himself about the way Crowley’s shoulders relax just a little bit at his smile.

———

So, Aziraphale thinks to himself a number of glasses later, so. So. So he has a thing for Crowley.

(This is not a surprise. But Aziraphale will let it be: a sudden rush, coming on him all at once. He’s a writer: he is a master of rephrasing.)

Crowley, who has vanished into the mysterious basement to dig up some bottle he absolutely _has_ to open for Aziraphale, declaring it _necessary_ for the enjoyment of their evening. It’s quite — _adorable_ is the only word that’s coming to Aziraphale’s mind, and that’s quite alarming in its own way, and not only because he thinks Crowley would absolutely despise it.

There are plenty of ways he can deny this to himself tomorrow. Aziraphale has played this game before many times, and he knows what to tell himself. It’s the appreciation of a physical form. It’s the joy in having a friend who doesn’t care who he works for. It’s the over-fondness one has when one only has one local friend. And there’s absolutely no evidence Crowley is at _all_ interested in someone like Aziraphale. All of these are lovely excuses Aziraphale can use in the morning to talk himself out of this.

For now, he looks into his glass and thinks about Crowley. He allows himself to wonder.

What would it be like to take Crowley into his bed? To have that chaotic joy, that unbridled intensity focused on _him_ and him alone? Aziraphale shivers at the thought: delicious, that. He would unwrap Crowley like a gift; bestow decadence on that sharp body, pay tribute to the expressive face and beautiful eyes. The image in his head is _incredibly_ powerful.

Would he have Crowley as a summer lover? Nights spent between the sheets, days spent drinking wine? Idyllic. No strings, no expectations, just long hours spent together in all possible ways. A pleasant goodbye at the end of his stay; perhaps an exchange of phone numbers.

(No. Aziraphale has done this too many times. This is a happy fiction he’s writing in his mind. There will be no easy, painless separation. Aziraphale drinks far too deeply for that ever to be true.)

There’s a scattering of noise by the stairs and Crowley explodes from the basement, two bottles of wine under his arm and a triumphant grin on his face, and Aziraphale feels his breath catch in his throat: _heavens,_ but Crowley’s beautiful like this, long-limbed and eager. Even his affectatious swagger across the tasting room to the bar is fond, appealing, as if Crowley offers a gift.

Crowley sets the bottles down on the bar and leans in, a bit too close; Aziraphale must still be lost in his wondering, because for a second he’s leaning in as well, a bit too eager, wanting to taste—

Aziraphale catches himself. He freezes. Crowley’s raised an eyebrow at him - curious, perhaps, unoffended - and Aziraphale smiles up at his friend ( _friend)_ with what he hopes is a blandly polite expression.

“What have we here?”

Crowley’s gaze stays on him for a moment more and then flicks away, abrupt, and Aziraphale can feel the mood change as he turns. “Here’s an old bottle of Lion’s Den,” Crowley tells him. “2012. I didn’t even know what I was doing. And whites are interesting about aging, anyway. Let’s crack it open and see whether it’s worth drinking.”

“And the other?” Aziraphale watches as Crowley’s expert hands send the twist down into the cork, then wedge the opener against the lip of the bottle and pull. Long, slender fingers; strong forearms. Now that he’s opened the book in his mind, he can’t stop staring.

“Oh, that’s Adam and Eve. Old-ish.” Crowley wriggles out the cork and leans in to fill Aziraphale’s empty glass. “I’m a bit off the white, after this glass.”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale starts, even though he doesn’t mean a single word of it. “You can’t just keep opening your entire reserve collection for m— when I’m here. Save some of these delicacies for yourself.”

“Have you ever heard yourself talk,” Crowley murmurs, amused, as he downs the last swallow in his glass and fills it with the 2012 Lion’s Den. “Don’t worry about it. ‘S not as much fun drinking them alone, you know.” A quick glance over the rims of the sunglasses, mismatched eyes twinkling: “Hard to make friends when you’re this busy, angel. Luckily you keep showing up.”

“With bribes like this?” Aziraphale glances up at Crowley through his lashes. “We’re on our way to an everlasting friendship, I’d say.”

Crowley shoots him another glance over the dark lenses, this one a bit unreadable. “Plenty more where this comes from,” he says, and flashes that crooked grin Aziraphale’s so fond of.

It’s physical. It must be; it’s simply the draw to Crowley’s attractive form, the angles of his body and lines of his face. It’s only physical. Aziraphale is allowed to appreciate, as long as it changes nothing.

———

_They tell me that it’s the soil that makes California wines. Then again, there are a hundred different variables I’ve heard for it: the soil, the sun, the rain. The fog that comes off of the sea. The hills. The flatness. In obvious truth, it’s a balance, details knit together like delicate lace._

_But the soil in the Russian River Valley is unique, I’m told, and is responsible for the riot of variety seen in its wines. There is shale, sandstone, clay; volcanic ash over eroded bedrock. The soils here have names: Altamont, Sebastopol. Goldridge soil is their unique blend of fractured sandstone and sandy loam, and is ideal for Pinot Noir and Chardonnay._

_Within California there are one hundred and seven American Viticultural Areas (AVAs) — regions that can be labeled with a distinct viticultural identity. The Russian River Valley is only one of the AVAs that make up Sonoma, let alone the state in its entirety. And even within the Russian River Valley itself I’ve seen dozens of types of wines, without even acknowledging the number of Meritage blends and Old Vine labels that exist alongside the others. I’ve found that even from a single vineyard, the same type of grape can be grown in two different places, two different manners, two different ways — and will create two distinctly differing tastes._

_Am I too set in my ways to be here? I’m a creature of comforts. This trip inspires and intrigues me like nothing else has, and yet it’s still within my comfort zone: wine, and food, and a luxurious bed. Even this period will come to an end, and I’ll return to the familiarity of a life lived the way it’s always been lived._

_This is a risk, I tell myself: I’m taking a leap, here, going off-script to taste wines that are new to me and write a book in the process. And yet how much of a leap can it be? I’ve the same people combing my posts for jargon, the same readers clamoring for detail. I’ve the same bastard pushing my words to be more commercial, more marketable. Has anything changed other than my environs?_

_I write about the new, about the variety and the life and the tastes, but do I remain the same?_

———

There are mornings where Aziraphale wakes slowly, gathers his thoughts, and spends at least an hour coming to terms with the day over a cup of tea and breakfast (some scrumptious pastry that Madame Tracy has left, perhaps, or one of Warlock’s increasingly-successful egg experiments). And then there are mornings where he lurches out of bed, shaves, attempts to calm his nest of curls, and puts on his best jacket to sit in front of the video camera and speak with Gabriel.

Gabriel is a morning person and Aziraphale decidedly is _not,_ so they’ve compromised. By that Aziraphale means the calls are on Gabriel’s timetable, and he has learnt to deal with it.

“Good morning, Aziraphale!” Gabriel’s always so chipper. Aziraphale tries to be somewhat cheerful back, since that seems to be what Gabriel likes, and he likes keeping Gabriel in a good mood for these chats.

“Good morning, Gabriel,” Aziraphale replies. Warlock is in the background as usual, making up tea and toast for him to have breakfast while Gabriel pontificates on the screen. “How are things out in LA?”

“Oh, the usual.” Gabriel chuckles. “We had a bit of a heat wave here. Almost rolled my sleeves up!” This gets another laugh, and Aziraphale smiles somewhat painfully. “How is the weather up there?”

“The same,” Aziraphale tells him. “I’ve been informed that summer here gets even hotter. I’m not quite looking forward to it.”

“Oh, I’m sure most big places have air conditioning.” Gabriel waves a hand in the air. “You’ll be fine. Off drinking and writing in the cool summer evenings, right?”

“Oh.” Aziraphale laughs nervously. “Yes, yes, of course.”

He wishes he got along better with Gabriel. It isn’t like they _don’t_ get along, per se, but he never knows what to say when Gabriel starts with his awkward comments and ridiculous jokes. He’d much rather have a boss _he_ could joke with, someone he could relate to, but — Gabriel is what he has. Aziraphale just wishes he understood Gabriel better. Sometimes he isn’t really sure what Gabriel’s asking him to do until Warlock explains it.

“So how’s the book proceeding?”

“Oh, wonderful.” Aziraphale makes himself smile large. It isn’t a _lie;_ he’s certainly put out a number of excellent words in the last week or two. He’s well aware that much of it isn’t what Gabriel wants to see, but that isn’t what Gabriel asked, is it? (He’s well aware that the document has been catching many of his unrelated thoughts, as well, but that’s what editing is for.) “I’ve moved on to the first chapter, trying to explain wine tasting to people, like you suggested.”

“Good.” Gabriel folds his hands in front of him and gives Aziraphale the kind of smile he has where Aziraphale continues to wonder whether it’s genuine or fake. “I’m glad you’re taking my recommendations. The project will be stronger for it, and you know we want a good strong book!”

“Ye-es,” Aziraphale says, chuckling weakly. “I’m also writing more like my blog! I think it’s really helping.” This is, well, _closer_ to a lie, but it’s _mostly_ true; there are sections he tries to write in the happy, friendly tone of his blog, and maybe they aren’t really a substantial portion of his words, but he _is_ trying,

It isn’t like Aziraphale knows what kind of book will be successful in his market — that’s Gabriel’s job! He has no idea how to write a best-seller. He’s discovered, over the last month-and-change, that he’s going to have to work to be able to meet Gabriel’s expectations. The words he’s making...

...the words he’s making are different. They’re more raw, more random, purer maybe, and he knows how to write _that_ — or maybe he doesn’t; it seems like he sits down and the words pour from him like water from behind a dam. It isn’t like anything Aziraphale has ever written in his life.

But none of this is _untrue!_ Really.

“Well, we ran your numbers this week,” Gabriel tells him, changing topic immediately. “We need you to dig a little deeper into the process, I think! What about that winery you keep writing about here and there, do you think they’d let you behind the curtains?”

Aziraphale brightens up. “Are they liking the posts about how wine is made? I’m so glad, I’m having so much fun learning.”

“Mmm.” Gabriel hums at him and turns over to his monitor, scrolling through something. “Numbers on those are lower, but comments are higher. Comments represent engagement, but we’d like to get views up as well for ads, so Michael would like you to try a couple articles about the process and we’ll see how they perform.”

Oh, but this pleases Aziraphale greatly! He wiggles, straightening his shoulders and smiling at Gabriel genuinely. “Excellent. I am _so_ happy to hear that. I’ll be able to get some good pictures, I expect.”

“Maybe more than one with your face in it?” Gabriel’s laugh seems - not forced - deliberate, maybe. “We want people to know you, Aziraphale.”

“I know,” he says. He isn’t going to get into it now. He’s pleased, and Aziraphale is determined to make that feeling last.

“Well, I’ll send you your demographics report in a bit.” Gabriel straightens in his seat and plasters on that smile of his. “Thanks for the check-in. Send me some of those good words, it’ll cheer me up!”

They murmur at each other and hang up quickly after that. Aziraphale leans back in his chair, feeling a bit chuffed. “Well, then,” he tells Warlock. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

Warlock’s frantically typing notes into his own tablet - which is normally a bad sign; now Aziraphale’s curious - but he manages to flash a grin at Aziraphale. “You should feel good about it,” Warlock says, and Aziraphale feels satisfied.

———

Warlock makes him another tea, after.

“So be honest this time,” he says. “How are you really feeling about what’s going on?”

Aziraphale is still pleasantly satisfied, so he beams at Warlock. “I mean, I’m not entirely confident yet, but I’m learning. My writing has been all over the place, but I think I can sort-of rein it in to match what Gabriel’s looking for.”

“Zira.” Warlock sighs into his dark coffee. “Can you please drop the bullshit factor? I know you pull this crap on over your face when you talk to Gabriel, but you don’t have to do it to me.”

Aziraphale takes a moment to sip at his tea and think. Warlock isn’t - he means, really - there isn’t - well, Warlock isn’t entirely right. Aziraphale isn’t false-facing when he comes to these calls. He simply... people have layers, right? Facets. He’s simply showing Gabriel the one he thinks will satisfy the best.

And yet — Warlock’s different. Aziraphale doesn’t have to choose one angle and omit all others. He can tell Warlock nearly anything.

“Look.” Aziraphale sighs into his tea. “I’ve been writing something ...different, lately. I absolutely know it isn’t all for the book — it’s very much stream-of-consciousness writing, you know, and I’m not lying when I say a good bit of it is in fact rubbish. But the rest of it is... Well, with some editing, it would be a very different style book than the rest of my blog.”

Warlock drinks his coffee, checks on his mobile, thinks. “Do you think that’s the kind of book you want to write?”

Aziraphale makes some kind of wincing motion with his lips. “The book I want to write is the one that makes Gabriel and FTA happy, you know that.”

Warlock purses his lips in response. “You know that isn’t what I asked you, Az.”

Aziraphale shrugs. “I mean, I’m not sure I have a more detailed response. That’s what I’m here for, isn’t it?”

Warlock looks at him for a long moment, and then sighs into his mug. “Just remember, Az. I’m here to get you what you want, you know?”

———

It turns out that the blues band that plays at _The Tan One_ is quite good. Crowley and Aziraphale have been seated at a table along the wall, and both are sitting on the wall’s bench seat in order to see the band. Aziraphale’s picked the wines this time - the wine list here is extensive, and they have a few of his favorites from France, so he’s taken the reins for their second round - and Crowley’s ordered him this appetizer with fried pita bread and a goat cheese marinara dip that’s absolutely _scrumptious._

Aziraphale is sitting forward on the bench as he picks away at the food. Crowley has sprawled back into the wall, legs crossed lazily at the ankles and both arms outstretched along the back of the bench. Aziraphale’s hyper-aware of that arm behind him and the knowledge that, were he to lean back, Crowley’s arm would be around his shoulders. His spine is prickling with that knowledge, nerves tingling at the back of his neck.

He isn’t going to make assumptions. Crowley’s like that, sprawling everywhere, limbs akimbo. It might just be the most comfortable way to sit at the moment. But Aziraphale’s skin is alight with the potential.

(It’s probably because of the way he let his imagination run rampant a week or so ago, allowing himself to consider Crowley in a very different way than usual. His silly, fanciful brain, highlighting the smallest things.)

Aziraphale has another bite - taking a moment to revel in the richness of the cheese, the slight heat to the marinara, the crunch of the toasted pita - and tries not to dwell. He’s had Warlock’s voice in his head all day, and he doesn’t much like it. Of _course_ the boy’s here to get him what he wants — that’s Warlock’s _job._ But doesn’t Aziraphale already have so much of what he wants? A once in a lifetime chance here, all expenses paid, all kinds of resources available?

He glances over at Crowley. He’s a business owner; he _must_ understand how it is. How even a dream job can’t always be a _dream._ Compromises have to be made; that’s the way business works. It isn’t like Aziraphale expected to be able to write just any old thing on this trip! He knows it has to be a book that will sell, one that will appeal to a certain - oh, but he hates the word - demographic. None of this is news.

The band pauses for a twenty-minute intermission, and Aziraphale picks up his glass of wine and turns his body towards Crowley. It puts him closer to the arm resting along the back of the bench. Aziraphale feels like half of his awareness is just thinking about that gesture — the way Crowley could pull him in, rest his hand on Aziraphale’s shoulder. Aziraphale could lean his head in against Crowley. It would be warm; comfortable.

And here he goes again: the writing part of his brain creating a lovely fiction. Crowley is not here for this.

“This is fabulous,” Aziraphale tells Crowley instead. “I’m so glad we came.”

“Course, angel.” Crowley leans forward with his other hand to pick up his own wineglass. “Used to be my favorite night here.” He pauses, and then shrugs. “I guess it still is. I just don’t come out as much. But when I first moved, I was here every week.”

Aziraphale smiles. “Too busy now? Or just over the bar scene.”

“Ehhhh.” Crowley makes one of his noises and gestures with the wine glass. “A little bit of both, I guess.”

Aziraphale isn’t quite sure how to ask Crowley what he wants to ask. He doesn’t want to end up talking about the book or his work again - he still feels like they spend too much time on it, and Crowley _can’t_ be that interested in the rambling words of a daft old man - but he feels like Crowley should be able to help him sort through his thoughts.

“I’m not sure you’ve told me,” Aziraphale says, feeling it out. “How on earth did you end up with your place?”

Aziraphale feels Crowley freeze on the bench, his body language stuttering somewhat at the question. “I, uh,” Crowley starts, and Aziraphale immediately regrets asking as Crowley makes a long series of vowel noises. “Inheritance,” he says finally, and makes a shaking motions with his head that clearly indicates he doesn’t want to talk about it.

There’s an apology on the tip of his tongue, but Aziraphale takes a sip of his wine and watches as Crowley downs his entire glass. “I didn’t mean to pry,” he says gently.

“‘S alright, angel.” Crowley sets his empty glass down and turns into Aziraphale. He keeps his arm along the back of the bench and suddenly all of Aziraphale’s nerves are lit up again - this time with as much anxiety as potential - as Crowley looks at him over the shades he’s kept on even in the dark bar. “You didn’t know. Some things I just don’t talk about.”

Aziraphale feels surprisingly guilty. Although Crowley’s right - he had no idea - he feels like he’s maybe taken a step too far forward. Crowley doesn’t have to have any interest in sharing his personal life with Aziraphale outside of what he already has.

“It’s absolutely fine, my dear boy.” Aziraphale settles back in facing the table, although he makes sure he’s closer to Crowley this time. Crowley’s welcome to move away. “I dare say we all have our sensitive spots.”

“I’m not—!” Crowley shoves the sunglasses back up his nose. “ _Sssensitive._ ”

Aziraphale can’t help his chuckle. “I’m not saying you are. I’m saying, sometimes our histories can be.”

The silence that follows is comfortable, mostly. Crowley’s still, but not tense. Aziraphale smiles to himself, although he’s still a little rustled. No, there’s no way he could have known, but — it’s a small bit unsettling? It probably isn’t fair to think so, but he’s shared a lot of things about his work and his book with Crowley, and it stings a little bit.

It’s probably because of this little fiction he’s been creating in his head. He doesn’t really need Crowley to open up. His company is enough.

Crowley shifts, and his fingers happen to brush against Aziraphale’s shoulder as he withdraws his arm to stand up. “My turn to pick,” he says to Aziraphale, holding out his hand, and Aziraphale empties his glass and hands it up to Crowley.

“All yours,” Aziraphale says. Crowley’s smile is crooked, but it’s a smile.

———

_I think about things here that I might not think of otherwise. The thing about trying a few new things is that it opens the other corridors of your mind to new things as well. Things you may never have considered suddenly bloom like budburst on the vine. Suddenly, so many things seem oddly possible._

_You start thinking about everything differently. Places seem reachable; goals, manageable. And people... seem accessible._

_You look at a friend you’ve made and you suddenly see a ... connection. You see potential. You look at someone sharp and beautiful and rather than simply reminding yourself that nothing so lovely would have interest in you, you suddenly see a world where it might and it could._

_Wines have layers and complexities to them. Your first sip might be all citrus and fruit, and it’s only at the bottom of the bottle that you find the hints of basil and leather. Or you may like a wine at first taste, only to discover you won’t finish the glass. Not all wines have complexities, but the best ones do._

_People can be like that, too. Do you ever meet someone and immediately want to know what’s inside? Peel them like an onion — like a grape, removing the skin to get at the juice underneath. Do you ever want to lay yourself out like an open book?_

_None of this prose is useable. Shit bugger fuck._

_What on earth am I writing?_

———

A few days later Aziraphale is enjoying a pleasant slow breakfast when his mobile buzzes.

_**You free today?** _

**__**

_No concrete plans, no. What do you have in mind?_

_**Come down, some time today. Wear clothes you don’t mind getting dirty.** _

Aziraphale re-reads the message, incredibly curious. What on earth is going through Crowley’s mind?

———

It’s early evening by the time Aziraphale and Warlock make their way over to _Ecdyses._ Aziraphale is a tad uncomfortable without the usual armor of his clothing: he’s wearing his only pair of denims, paired with a flannel, and the hideous walking shoes Gabriel had insisted on buying for him during one of their outings. He feels like a mockery of himself, dressed down in public. But he’s also curious.

Warlock takes a seat at the bar across from Adam and Pepper, who are lounging about. Newt’s off to the other side of the bar with a few customers, and Anathema emerges from the back rooms when she hears them arrive.

“Aziraphale! Perfect,” she says, and lifts the swing gate to allow him behind the bar. “C’mon, he’s waiting for you.”

Aziraphale blinks for a moment, a little stunned, and then looks at Warlock. Warlock makes a shooing motion and blows a raspberry at him. Well, then.

He follows Anathema through the back rooms. He only gets a glance of the kitchen; the way they’re heading there are a number of offices, each one holding some personality, but they’re moving far too fast for Aziraphale to place them.

Anathema pushes open a door and they’re suddenly back behind the tasting building. Aziraphale stops to take it all in, because it’s passingly lovely: the sun has just begun to think about setting, the buildings scattered around the back are glowing with gold, and there are rows upon rows of trellis and vine.

“He’s up in the Petite Syrah,” Anathema says, and gestures for Aziraphale to follow her. “C’mon, before he changes his mind. He never lets _anyone_ back here.”

“Oh,” says Aziraphale. It seems to be his default word, these days.

“That’s Crowley’s house.” Anathema waves a hand at a lovely little two-story tucked a bit away from the tasting room. The front of it is laden with flowering bushes and enough sprouting plants to tell Aziraphale there must be one heaven of a garden there. “That back there is processing, and that’s bottling.”

Aziraphale makes a noise of acknowledgment, but continues looking at Crowley’s house. He wonders what it’s like inside: is it pristine and empty, or is it chaotic and full? What would Crowley’s decorating tastes be like? Something brutally stylish, likely. Aziraphale pictures Crowley’s closets, full of black and grey and texture: he wants to see them, the row of tastefully worn designer denims, the collection of black blazers.

“There.” Anathema stops, gestures to a well-worn path leading up and around a small hill. “Follow that path, you’ll find him, he’s probably yelling again.”

“Yelling?” Aziraphale murmurs, bringing a hand to his mouth in amusement.

Anathema grins. “Sorry, I gotta run, Newt’s the only one behind the counter right now. Have fun.”

Aziraphale watches as she heads back down towards the tasting building. What on earth?

He decides that if he’s going to wander a vineyard, he’s going to enjoy it. He clasps his hands in front of him, and starts strolling slowly down the path Anathema had indicated. The vines on either side of him are all coming alive, green leaves unfolding, little tendrils reaching out. Aziraphale remembers Crowley has said it’s only ten acres of land, but it feels like miles upon miles stretched out before him, all of it teeming with new life.

It smells like spring. It smells like growth. Fresh, something green and sharp, a hint of petrichor from the soil. Aziraphale loves it immediately.

He follows the path round a curve and spots Crowley immediately: a bright spot of red in the sea of brown and green. Crowley’s a few rows away from the path, doing something to a vine, and Aziraphale pauses to take in the sight.

Crowley’s lovely like this as well, and Aziraphale should have guessed that. His hair is up in a bun, revealing the stark lines of his jaw and throat; even in a t-shirt and jeans Crowley looks like he grew right from the ground, a creature of the soil, somehow wild and unearthly in that moment.

Then Crowley drops something and ruins the moment by yelling, “Oh, fuck you too! I’ll chop you all down!”

Aziraphale laughs, and it’s bright out here in the middle of the vineyard, free and unfettered.

Crowley whips around. Aziraphale can’t entirely tell with the sunglasses, but he feels like Crowley’s eyes are as wide as his open jaw for a long moment. Then he visibly shakes his head, and laughs back, his smile wrinkling up his face charmingly.

“Hey, angel.”

Aziraphale shakes his head at the nickname, fondly, and takes a few steps towards Crowley. “This explains the clothing, at least.”

He can feel Crowley’s gaze flicking down and then up. “Never seen you in jeans,” Crowley says, a little awkwardly. “Those shoes are hideous.”

“Aren’t they?” Aziraphale laughs, picking his foot up off the ground to show them off. “Gabriel made me buy them on one of our earliest outings. Told me he’d make me a _walking regimen._ Sent me links to health websites for weeks.”

Crowley’s grin turns naughty. “You didn’t do a lick of it, did you?”

Aziraphale realizes he’s clasped his hands in front of his belly again, and drops them; it’s one thing, to be generally accepting of his form, and quite another to draw attention to his - softness - around someone like Crowley. “I never quite seemed to have the time,” he says loftily, and Crowley cackles.

“Well, angel, here’s where the magic happens.” Crowley throws his arms wide. His tee is a simple black, with a hole in the armpit; his jeans have certainly seen better days, and he’s barefoot. It’s deliciously plain.

“And where are we exactly?” Aziraphale takes a step forward, reaches out to experimentally touch a leaf. The vines themselves look and feel like dead branches; the leaves are oddly fragile, tender.

“Oh, it’s the goddamned Petite Syrah.” Crowley makes a face. “Pain in my ass. Higher-density planting, great soil, yet always ends up being _shit—_ ” This last bit is hollered over his shoulder into the vines “—and has to spend four years in bottle aging to make up for it.”

Aziraphale walks down the row, brushing his fingers along the dry wood of the vine. “What on earth’s wrong with it?”

“It exists to piss me off,” Crowley tells him. “Otherwise, I have no idea. Every year I tell it I’m going to burn it all down and start over, and every year it makes the same mistakes.”

“Maybe tend it with something a bit kinder?” Aziraphale suggests with a grin.

Crowley scoffs. “Don’t spoil them. They’re hard enough to manage as it is.” He points at Aziraphale, adding, “And that’s what we’re going to do tonight. Manage them.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale immediately withdraws his hands from the vines. “Me?”

“Why not?” Crowley shrugs. “I can’t seem to make them perform satisfactorily. So I’m gonna teach you how to sucker, and we’re going to do this entire row.”

“I couldn’t possibly,” Aziraphale starts. It’s somehow daunting: Crowley is so particular about his wines! He remembers Anathema telling him Crowley doesn’t even normally allow people into the vineyard itself; what on earth is he thinking?

“You absolutely possibly could.” Crowley gestures. “Look here. See all these little green shoots? You just pinch a couple off so that they’re more evenly distributed and so that there aren’t so goddamn many of them.” Aziraphale stares while Crowley’s long fingers touch a couple of them before boldly pinching off three and dropping them onto the ground. “Nothing to it.”

“Oh, heavens,” says Aziraphale. “I’m terribly sure I’ll mess it up.”

“Just don’t pinch them all off.” Crowley’s grinning, casual and beautiful and Aziraphale momentarily feels like he can’t breathe. “Here, look, I’ll guide you through it.”

He takes Aziraphale by the elbow and pulls him down to an untended spot. There are three vines growing across the trellis, each with a number of budding leaves and pretty green tendrils. “Have a look. See how there’s a cluster here? And here?” Crowley gestures. “Take out, eh, three from the first one and two from the next.”

Aziraphale reaches out and, very carefully and gently, pinches off one of the thin shoots. He brings it up to his nose to smell. It smells of life, of green things, of earth. It smells a little of Crowley. Aziraphale’s suddenly hit with the breadth of it: his hands on these vines will shape how they grow this year and the next and years after that, just like the vineyard has grown for years.

Then, it’s just a shoot, and Crowley’s taking it from him and tossing it. “Go on, then,” he says.

Aziraphale carefully, cautiously, lovingly, puts his hands on Crowley’s vines and pinches off the required amount. “Goodness,” he says, with a little deprecating laugh. “I don’t believe you’re letting me do this.”

“Oh, it’s a win-win for me, angel.” Crowley grins, all easy lips and raised eyebrow. “Less work, for one, and it makes you the scapegoat if they misbehave again, see? ‘Oh, this year it isn’t my fault at all, it was all that blogger.’”

“And what if they do well?” Aziraphale teases, smiling back.

“Then you’ve got magic hands,” says Crowley, his grin going sly. “And you’ll need time off next year to do it again.”

Now, that’s a pleasant thought: a standing invitation to come back, to come _out_ here, to get his hands on Crowley’s vineyard again — oh, dear, what is he thinking. He hasn’t even really _done_ anything yet. “Magic hands,” he says, looking down at them. Broad palms, thick fingers, carefully-kept nails. They look nothing like Crowley’s.

“We’ll see,” says Crowley, glancing over the tops of his sunglasses to wink his mismatched eyes at Aziraphale. “C’mon. We’re gonna do this entire row before dinner.”

Crowley has to show him a couple more times before Aziraphale’s really confident in what he’s doing, but eventually, he becomes more sure of himself. There’s something _intimate_ about the work, and the silence; they have their backs turned to each other, working their way down the row. He’ll occasionally turn around to make sure he’s keeping pace with Crowley; Crowley will occasionally come peer over Aziraphale’s shoulder, checking and watching as Aziraphale works.

It’s peaceful. It’s comfortable. It feels — lovely. Just coexisting, here, with Crowley and the vines and the earth beneath their feet.

“Aziraphale.” Crowley’s voice brings him back to his senses. “What the devil are you doing?”

Aziraphale finds he’s tasting one of the slender green shoots. It’s sharp, brilliant — spicy like the micro greens one puts on a salad. “I wanted to know,” he says, somewhat embarrassed, because how can he explain that he wants to have this taste in his memory: the very beginning of the cycle, the taste at the joint of new growth and old support where grapes will grow?

But Crowley’s giving him this incredible look - sunglasses pushed up into his hair - that Aziraphale’s never seen before. It’s a look like Crowley gets it. It’s a look of wonder, as if Aziraphale has somehow impressed him, or surprised him. It’s a look that makes Aziraphale realize just how close Crowley is. It makes him want to step forward and taste Crowley’s lips, with the sharp taste of spring still in his mouth.

Aziraphale stops. Crowley’s eyes flick down to his mouth and then back up: his dark eye is deep and the golden one sparkling and Aziraphale feels struck by something that’s far more than a physical attraction. Although the desire to kiss Crowley is quite overwhelming at the moment.

“It all starts at the mouth,” he says. It comes out soft between them, like he’s quoting something impressively profound, rather than his own awful drivel.

Crowley blinks, and his eyes more obviously trace Aziraphale’s mouth; Aziraphale sees Crowley’s tongue flick out for a second, wetting his own lips. “I guess it does,” Crowley replies, equally soft, and then he leans in.

Aziraphale’s breath catches in his throat as he stretches, in and up, and then Crowley’s mouth is on his. It’s soft at first, more gentle than Aziraphale would have thought Crowley kissed, something tentative and precious. Aziraphale shifts a bit, turning so that his nose nuzzles into Crowley’s cheek, moving his mouth — and then Crowley kisses back, intensified, as if a circuit is finally connected.

Aziraphale feels it from the soles of his feet, up from Crowley’s soil, all of his nerves lighting up, almost _painfully_ awake as Crowley’s hand comes up to his cheek - shaking, Crowley’s fingers are shaking - and they’re still kissing, _heavens,_ Aziraphale’s lit up like a candle. He’s _hopelessly_ aroused.

Crowley is easily the best thing he’s ever tasted. Aziraphale feels shaken, stirred, licking into Crowley’s mouth with what is either excitement or desperation. Crowley tastes like the sun and the fog and every wine he’s ever had. Aziraphale’s head is spinning.

When Crowley finally pulls away Aziraphale feels like he’s drunk.

“Um,” Crowley says. He’s rubbing at the back of his neck, flushed delightfully pink, looking away. “Sorry. We should, uhhh, y‘know. Head in.”

“Of course,” Aziraphale’s mouth says, his brain still attempting to process everything. His lips are still tingling.

Crowley gives him one last look - alight, afraid, anxious - and Aziraphale almost steps forward to kiss him again, but — he doesn’t.

Crowley shoves his sunglasses back on and takes off down the path towards the tasting room. Aziraphale watches, then finally rouses himself to follow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> dont kill me klsdjglks jsdflsd hur hur hur
> 
> okay, so HOW THE FUCK IS IT JUNE ANYWAY? here's the thing: i'm not as ahead as I would like, so i will be skipping next week's wednesday update. next chapter of Old Vines will post 10 June, and i should be back on track by then. in the meantime i'm taking prompts on tumblr [right here](https://sevdrag.tumblr.com/ask) for ficlets between 500-1000 words because i need to write SHORT things too, so come prompt me if you like.
> 
> anyway i'll see yall in a week and a half for the next chapter, titled "Crowley, What Did You DO" or "Gay Panic Intensifies For Twenty-Two Pages"
> 
> plz comment and kudos me im That Guy <3 <3


	9. The Indistinct Taste of Possibilities

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley isn't good at a traditional tasting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WELL FUCK SHIT FUCK, LOOK
> 
> \- things happened, including that my work contract ended early so i only have 2 weeks of work left, and i money-panicked and had to deal with a bunch of shit  
> \- i literally rewrote this entire chapter. first version? what's that. i've literally never deleted and rewritten a chapter before, but somehow, this one needed it. that took a while.  
> \- i really really hope this chapter isn't trash  
> \- god BLESS the lovely fadedsepia AND everyone on tumblr who has sent me encouraging messages - you're all the shit, you really have encouraged me, especially tonight! (everybody who replied or messaged me tonight, seriously, BLESS)  
> \- YALL BITCH I HAVE FANART TO SHARE?????? the absolutely LOVELY eganantiquus has made SO MUCH lovely art I have to show you:::::::  
> \-- [it starts at the mouth](https://eganantiquus.tumblr.com/post/621308509352542208/it-all-starts-at-the-mouth-here-is-my-offering) \-- IT'S THE KISS YALL ITS LOVELY this is EXACTLY what it should looks like aaaaaaaaaaaa  
> \-- [DOUBLE CROWLEYS](https://sevdrag.tumblr.com/post/620644618581753856/hajdlfkglfklglclglg) \-- exact versions of what I pictured Crowley wearing in these scenes, let me tell you, this is fucking gorgeous  
> \--[and here's my version of the kiss](https://sevdrag.tumblr.com/post/620852514456223745) (and [instagram](https://www.instagram.com/p/CBYMs4mpY7r/?utm_source=ig_web_copy_link)) but since more people liked the sketch than the final, i mean, whatever I'm not an artist
> 
> in other new things:  
> \- the fic will now update once every 10 days. Wednesdays are not sustainable, but I do need a deadline, so. 10 days. Enjoy.  
> \- Did you notice anything at the chapter count? Yes, I have a final number! 20 Chapters, total. You have no idea what's coming.
> 
> Aaaaaaaaaand......... _shut the fuck up Sev_ here you go

OH for fuck’s sake why is he always so _stupid_ out in his vines.

It’s midnight and Crowley’s wandering his way out to the Old Vine Zin, the perfect place to have a fit and yell about how much he’s an idiot! Everything is _fine._

He can’t even blame being _drunk._

The worst part is: their lips had parted, and Crowley had felt like he’d been hit by lightning, already half-hard in his jeans, and he’d looked at Aziraphale and thought, _that wasn’t supposed to happen yet._

And then they’d gone inside and shared a bottle of the Petite Sirah they’d just been tending, and it had almost been like nothing happened, and Crowley’d kind of settled into the thin line of tension in the air because they could both be adults and pretend it never happened.

And then his brain had caught up with _yet._

What the _fuck._

No one knows he’s out here, wandering the vines with only a flashlight and an almost-full moon, wearing what he’s decided are this week’s pajamas - little black linen shorts and a thin long-sleeved tee, with grey stripes - carrying the end of a bottle of Zinfandel and wanting to scream.

Crowley, for all that he’s a mess with legs and anxiety, has at least learnt to be honest with himself over the last twelve years, after his fall from grace. So he knows, he _knows_ he’s been drawn to Aziraphale from the very beginning; he _knows_ they’ve been dancing around something physical as well. And apparently his subconscious had formulated some intricate plan in which Crowley could kiss Aziraphale and Aziraphale would kiss back, and then his brain (and mouth) had jumped the gun.

It was just a simple kiss. A few seconds of Crowley feeling like he was on fire, aching all the way to his feet with the sensation of something _fitting,_ finally, some sort of harmonizing note he’d never even realized was lacking—

—but it was just a simple kiss. No big deal. Friends can occasionally kiss out in a vineyard at sunset, right? Crowley is a _cliche._

 _Fuck,_ it had been good though.

There isn’t really any question about what’s going to happen: Aziraphale’s a famous blogger, a member of FTA’s elite cast, and he’s going to go home in six (five) months to his place in Los Angeles and his day job and his new book. And Crowley will not follow. He can’t leave _Ecdyses,_ especially not now.

He’s also a fucking disaster that hasn’t tried to _date_ anyone in eleven years, and before that Crowley was a different person entirely: stringing together relationships and hook-ups, occasionally sleeping his way through a client, having fun with it and pretending nothing mattered.

Here, in his vines, everything matters. Everything matters _so much_ and it clutches in Crowley’s chest.

That being said, his brain seems to have set aside his emotional crush and fascination with Aziraphale to basically replay the kiss in a high-definition technicolor loop, and Crowley’s punched in the gut (and lower) with how much he _wants_ Aziraphale.

Yeah, the draw had always been physical as well, but — _fuck._

To open up all of those pristinely ironed layers, to be able to taste the creamy skin underneath - to be able to hear those sounds that so far Crowley’s only heard Aziraphale make for food - Jesus _Christ_ , _he’s a fucking old man in his late forties and he shouldn’t be getting horny out in the middle of a vineyard in the middle of the night._

“I hate you,” Crowley says to the old vines, even as he lets his fingers trail along them.

Crowley knows how it will end, but now he knows how it has started — _that_ it has started, and he’ll be damned but there’s something absolutely exciting about that.

Because the thing that keeps flickering in his head is that Aziraphale _had leaned in and kissed back._

“It doesn’t mean he’s going to want anything,” Crowley tells the vines and the moon and the darkness of the soil beneath his feet. He turns the flashlight off, lets his eyes adjust, looks skywards. Even with the moon near full he can still see Cassiopeia, Leo, the Summer Triangle. There’s a peace to it, here, even in the chilly night weather of mid-May: soil below, stars above, and Crowley in-between, as always.

It doesn’t mean Aziraphale will want anything more from Crowley. Maybe he’s already realized that it was a terrible idea; maybe he’s already moving on. That’s okay. Crowley won’t push; he knows he’s a disaster asshole in shades and snakeskin, hiding a rough-beating heart, stars above and soil below and nothing inbetween worth mentioning. He’s fine. He has his vines.

But if Aziraphale’s interested? In some fucking slip of an thing like Crowley, all sharp angles and yelling?

Crowley will take what he can get.

The thought is stuttering, shuddering, and the breeze is chill across his shoulders, his bare calves. Crowley will, in fact. Aziraphale - the man _behind_ A.Z. Fell, the one who’s a bit naughty and a bit cheesy, the one who laughs with his entire golden body? Of course Crowley will take whatever he can get.

———

He was out in the vines until two, and then slept in until ten, waking up with four texts from Anathema making sure he hadn’t died. Crowley’s the damn boss around here, he gets to make his own fucking schedule. That’s how it fucking works. But he’s thrown-off by it, and grumpy enough at everyone that he just considers going back out into the vines.

So of course this is the day Bee comes to visit.

Crowley and Bee have an odd relationship, as if they’re friends and enemies at the same time. Bee is generally friendly and helpful, but Crowley never forgets that they have an ulterior motive behind everything they say. And Bee looks at Crowley like he’s an uninformed underling, sometimes, although that’s also just the way Bee can be. Despite all of that, though, there are eleven years of business between them, and sometimes that bond emerges into friendship for a short while.

Crowley can not deal with this today, but hell, when has his life ever been fair.

They’re alone at the end of the tasting bar. There are two glasses in front of them, both dark red, and Crowley wonders what part of his menu they’re tasting this time. It always feels like Bee is judging him, when they show up and order something. It’s just like that.

“Lord Beelzebub,” he greets them, summoning up his most snarky grin. He’s going to approach this like he does everything: like a little shit. “What brings you to my humble establishment?”

“Crowley,” Bee drones. “We need to talk.”

“Do we?” Crowley makes a show of pouring himself a glass of Zinfandel to hide the way his stomach clenches at it. “What is it? Dagon have a bad day? Somebody break a nail?”

Bee’s face remains calm, calculating. “You’ve been getting some good press lately.”

Crowley opens his mouth to ask what the hell they mean, and then it sinks in: Aziraphale. A.Z. Fell has been writing about them. _Aziraphale kissed him; he kissed back, all lovely in the light of Crowley’s vineyard, Crowley’s own vines between his teeth—_

“Yeah.” His voice is almost stable. He really doesn’t want to reveal how close he and Aziraphale have become — or Warlock and Adam and The Them, really, oh _fuck_ this has the potential to be a mess. “Got to meet A.Z. Fell.” He delicately pronounces all of the consonants. “‘S like meeting your childhood hero.”

At that Bee rolls their eyes. “Put your boner away,” they say, which unfortunately makes Crowley laugh at the same time he fucking blushes, red-hot. “The point is, this is a great opportunity for you to capitalize on, here.”

“Good press is good press,” Crowley says, his tongue feeling dumb in his mouth. “Not really sure what else one does with it?”

The noise that comes out of Bee’s mouth is some kind of buzzing scoff caught in their throat. “Oh, Crowley, you can really be an idiot sometimes.”

Crowley huffs back at that. “Fuck off, Bee. say what you need to say and go.”

“Hell, Crowley.” Bee takes a long drink, and to Crowley’s surprise, they smile. “This really is good, you know.”

And that’s the thing about Bee. They can simultaneously drag Crowley while still being the appreciative kind of friend. Maybe this is just the way they are.

“Ta,” says Crowley. “Which do you have?”

“It’s the Old Vines.” Bee grins, all smirky and slimy, and Crowley laughs with some desperation. Of course Bee’s there.

(He thinks about taking Aziraphale there, out in the old vines, brushing them with those careful fingers and perhaps dragging a finger through the soil, to smell at the minerals within. Then he stops.)

“Anyway.” Bee continues, apparently refusing to wait for Crowley. “Look, I shouldn’t be here saying this, but terms are gonna change at the end of the year, alright?”

Crowley’s stomach knots up until it’s the density of lead and sinks down into the ground. “Terms?”

Bee takes another long drink. “Look, you know there are stipulations in your terms that recognize market changes and all, right?”

Crowley nods. Now, he’s the one drinking deeply. He tries to root himself in the taste of his land, his leaves, the notes he knows are from his own soil.

“Well, interest rates are changing.” Bee looks into their glass. “It’s coming through the Fed soon and within like six months, all the institutions are going to be adjusting out here for it.”

“Right, right,” Crowley drawls. He doesn’t want to let Bee know that he’s at all concerned. He hopes they can’t hear the way his heart is pounding in his chest.

“So...” Bee trails off, takes another sip. “There’s an offer on the table.”

Crowley, in an incredibly display of mature restraint, does _not_ throw his wine glass into their face, although it’s a close call.

“With your publicity, now would be a great time to announce an expansion. An investment of some sort. Put you right out there in public.” They look Crowley up and down with a smirk. “Maybe tempt your blog friend to write about it, hmm?”

Crowley grimaces, because fuck, it _would_ look like that, wouldn’t it?

Bee laughs at his expression, though, and has another sip. “You’d get to keep your current rates, all locked in. Then, there’d be a sum available on an equity loan, at the lowest rates we have, payable over ten years.”

Crowley hums. Looks into his wine glass; smells the aroma, sharp and spicy. “No shares?”

Bee shakes their head. “Not at first. As the ten-year payable unfolds, we can talk about additional options beneficial to us both.”

“You could have just emailed this to Wensleydale,” Crowley tells them. “Why are you here in person?”

“I’m here cause I actually like your wine,” Bee says, their grin sudden and sharp. It surprises Crowley into a wicked cackle and a genuine smile.

Huh. Crowley knows they always have a glass when they come in, and he’s seen them leave with a bottle or three, but he figured it was either the kind of thing you do when your company technically has money invested in the place, _or_ the kind of thing _Bee_ does to discomfort him. It makes him feel much better, oddly enough. God, he’s such a fucking pushover, but he can’t help his own reaction when somebody likes his wine.

“I’ll get you a bottle to take,” Crowley offers, for the first time ever.

———

 _Hello,_ Aziraphale’s text message reads. _Is there space at the tasting bar for one more tonight?_

The flashback is flickering along the edges of his thoughts, and so Crowley just shuts his eyes and lets it happen.

The scent of the vineyard, the calm comfort of working alongside a friend, and the _shock_ he’d felt glancing up to see Aziraphale biting at one of the shoots as if it were some sort of fancy lettuce. It had completely sidelined half of Crowley’s brain. For all of the years he’s been here in the Russian River Valley, Crowley’s one of the only viticulturalists who does things like lick dirt and chew on his flowers: for him it’s just one more way to gather information about his vines, and the more information he has the better he feels. But standing there, seeing Aziraphale —

Seeing Aziraphale there, nibbling on the new growth, looking only curious and interested, had done something to Crowley’s heart. Something he’s afraid is more than temporary. Those cells, those compounds, those atoms, from things _he_ grew: they were entering Aziraphale’s body, they would become part of him - however small - and Crowley’s vines would be a part of Aziraphale, for a long time.

He’s fucking swooning. This is ridiculous.

But Aziraphale’s mouth had been so soft. Curious. Crowley had been dragged to it: like a magnet, like a vine to the sun, like sliding home. There’d been a moment his entire body had lit up like a goddamned firework.

Crowley breathes in his vines. He feels the soil under his bare feet. He thinks the Chardonnay might be close to flowering; it’s a bit early, for the Chard, but it’s been warm and he can work with it. He pinches off a wayward shoot, smells it, thinks about putting it into his mouth.

 _ **Always,**_ he sends back.

———

May seems to be a popular month for tourists, although Crowley isn’t really sure why — aren’t children still in school? Maybe it’s a good time for people who don’t have kids? Do they have extra time off in May? What’s a holiday, Crowley hasn’t had one in ages.

What it means is that he’s absolutely in his element as he skulks around in the background, occasionally looming over Anathema or Newt to listen to the conversation. He’s always interested in how people see his wines — not commercially, really, although Bee would tell him to be; it’s more about what people taste when they have a sample, and whether there are trends in their comments that he can identify. He’s perfected looming, too: he’s wearing the burgundy snakeskin boots today, with slim black trousers and his grey blazer with three-quarter sleeves over a soft black tee with a bit of sparkle.

(No. He isn’t dressed up for Aziraphale. He’s worn this outfit before, for no reason other than he likes it. It isn’t like he spent twenty minutes shredding his closet this morning. Not at all.)

He allows himself to be dragged into a few conversations. Visitors like chatting with the owner, for whatever reason, even if said owner is a grumpy, twitchy know-it-all wearing sunglasses indoors. It isn’t that he wants to avoid talking to the customers entirely - there are always some who are fascinating (Aziraphale) - it’s more that he likes staying aloof, one degree of separation.

The crowd today means that he doesn’t notice Aziraphale for a while. He’s sat himself at the table in the corner, the one he likes to write at, and has a glass of something red, happily tapping away at his little tablet. Crowley steals a moment to just ...look.

Aziraphale looks content, pleased even. Comfortable. He’s wearing what looks like linen: sky-blue shirt with sleeves rolled up, pale trousers. There’s a length of tartan fabric under his collar, which Crowley assumes is a bow tie that’s been abandoned.

He likes this: Aziraphale comfortable in his space, peaceful enough to unravel himself a bit at the edges. He looks soft, broad, strong: like Crowley could sink into him.

Then Aziraphale glances up. Crowley has no idea how the other man knows he’s being watched through dark lenses, but Aziraphale’s face lights up as he catches Crowley’s eye. His brow smoothes; his eyes crinkle. It’s a warm smile, with perhaps a bit of tentative shyness. Crowley remembers those lips.

But he nods at Aziraphale, feeling his own face soften helplessly, and his smile’s crooked but genuine.

Aziraphale takes his time, which Crowley also likes. He seems to be in the middle of something - a blog post, maybe? - and it lets Crowley continue to lurk like a demon in the background. Eventually the biggest group takes their leave, opening up a number of seats at the tasting bar, and a few minutes later, Aziraphale’s wiggling his way into one of them.

Crowley’s glad for the sunglasses. Now that he’s had a taste, Aziraphale just looks delicious: sweeter than Chardonnay, sharper than Zinfandel. He’s so delightfully... solid. Rounded.

“Wotcher,” Crowley says, because his mouth is an idiot that can’t be trusted.

“Hello, Crowley.” There’s something delicate in Aziraphale’s voice. Crowley can feel it in the air: this is them, together, silently trying to decide whether or not they’re going to talk about it.

Crowley tips his head towards Aziraphale’s glass, and the other man laughs. “It’s your Apocalypse, my dear. I’m treating myself today.”

“Mnnn.” Crowley grins. “Shall I join you?”

“I would like that very much,” Aziraphale says, and there’s that tender look flickering towards Crowley and then away: the one that makes Crowley’s nerves light up all over like it’s electricity.

Crowley smoothly moves behind Anathema, snagging a glass - “ _Crowley,_ come _on_ ” - and then retrieving a bottle of Apocalypse from the wall. Opening a bottle at this point is a rote memory; Crowley could do it blindfolded standing on one leg. “What’s the occasion?”

“Oh,” Aziraphale says, a pleased little note. “I was complimented by my boss this morning.”

Crowley narrows his eyes and says nothing; isn’t a boss supposed to compliment and support their employees? He’s a right dick at times but Crowley knows that Anathema and Newt know how much this place relies on them; even The Them, a contracted and paid service, are a part of _Ecdyses._ It isn’t his fault he expresses affection through yelling and inarticulation. They know how to translate it at this point.

“My numbers are up,” Aziraphale adds, and whatever, fuck it, the man looks actually happy.

“Cheers.” Crowley tips his glass towards Aziraphale’s; they clink, and Crowley takes a small sip. 2014 had been a great year for the old vines. He loves this particular vintage, the way it holds so much of the sunlight in the body of it.

“I should tell you,” Aziraphale starts. Pauses. Glances away and then takes a sip of the wine. Oh, _fuck_ , is he going to go there, fuck, _shit,_ what does he say, what will he do—

“Actually.” Aziraphale continues, and there’s a surprisingly teasing note to it. Crowley glances up, glad of the sunglasses, hoping they can at least distract from the blush across his cheeks. “I’ve actually been using a little bit of your - of what you’re - the things you’ve said, about growing the grapes, see.”

Crowley — doesn’t really see, but smiles hopelessly.

“I had no idea about the process,” Aziraphale tells him, like a secret. “I mean, I know about tannins, and acids, and I know oak barrels and steel barrels, but ... the things you’ve been saying about how things here grow, it’s — fascinating.”

Aziraphale is looking at him with an incredible amount of awe and Crowley doesn’t deserve that at all. “Hng.” He rubs a hand on the back of his neck. “Nkg. Yeah.”

“So I’ve been inserting it,” Aziraphale says. His face is wide open now, all excited. “I’ve been putting a little bit of it into my entries, and ... they _love_ it. My readers, I mean.” He coughs. “Uh, they mean. My bosses.”

Crowley knows that he’s slowly turning pink, a flush that’s going to travel down his neck and across his breast and Aziraphale will be able to see every _inch_ of it since his v-neck tee is cut low and very sparkly.

“I hope I’m not ...taking advantage,” Aziraphale says then, and the air catches in Crowley’s throat, because there’s _that_ look again, the one with all of the fondness and potential and how the _fuck_ is Aziraphale so confident, so good at this? Crowley’s already leaning in, drawn in, what the fuck, his spine isn’t even working right—

“Hnnn.” Crowley makes a noise, manages to stop the slow descent of his entire being into Aziraphale’s face. “No,” he manages to grunt out eventually. “Nah, no, ngh, these lessons are for free, angel.”

“Thank you,” Aziraphale murmurs. He’s so fucking close.

Crowley isn’t going to say anything. He isn’t going to mention it. but the memory of that brief, blazing kiss is screaming its way down his spine, trickling like water, down and down.

Then Aziraphale smiles, as if he’d confirmed something, and leans back. “So, dear boy. Tell me about your day.”

———-

If the Chard’s getting ready to flower, Crowley knows, it’s time to finish up all of the pruning and suckering he wants to do. At some point in the year when the weather turns perfect, the shoots can grow up to an inch a day, and he wants to have all of them pointed in the direction he wants before they get there. So he’s dragged Anathema and Adam out into his acres, leaving Newt and Brian to man the counter.

It’s soothing work. They’re almost done, honestly, and Crowley’s down in the Pinot Noir. These are some of his favorite grapes: they’re reliable, they always predict what’s going to happen come harvest, and they’re very good at high yield. It’s comforting.

He’s trying to think about Bee’s offer, but in actuality he’s thinking about Aziraphale. Which seems to be the theme of his life, now, for fuck’s sake. He really doesn’t like Bee’s insinuation about tempting Aziraphale into writing something positive. If they’re going to be in a — if they’re doing to have — if they’ll be — if they’re _involved_ , fuck, _kissing_ or whatever the word is, it’s going to look poorly on them both. But then again Crowley’s romantic - er - whatever, Crowley’s private life isn’t any of Bee’s business anyway.

Expanding. Of course he has dreams, it’s just — _Ecdyses_ always seems one small trick away from absolutely crashing, and Crowley doesn’t have enough time to manage it _and_ plan. But he has just about three acres he isn’t using and about three million ideas as to what could go there, as well as an uncountable number of smaller ideas that can suit his existing layout just fine.

It isn’t that Crowley doesn’t have — dreams, visions, goals: whatever fucking fluffy-ass word you want to use to describe them, sure, he has them. He always has. Bee and Dagon think him stupid, but the truth is, he just doesn’t talk to them. Crowley’s not going to reveal a thing he _wants;_ that creates a weakness, a vulnerability, and he absolutely cannot give a single hint of that to the people who so badly want to own him.

But yes: in his own head he has plans, and options, and so many things he’d do if only he had something like the power of miracles and no repercussions upon doing so. The situation is _far_ too complicated for him to follow at this point.

He just has — he has to be able to take care of himself; has to be able to save himself. He cannot count on anyone when it comes to this magnitude. Yes, sure, he has a great team: Anathema and Newt are happy to be career employees, Adam’s a great protege, Brian’s installed for life, The Them are wonderful — he won’t pretend they aren’t. But Crowley’s been burnt, once, _badly._ Having a good team around him is one thing. Crowley knows no one will be able to catch him - to save him - if things fall through — if _he_ falls again.

Actually, something about it is worse, knowing he has such a great team: they’re all depending on him, to keep _Ecdyses_ going. What Crowley lacks - what Crowley has never had - is an _equal,_ a _partner._ He has no one to discuss ideas with, no one to brainstorm with that won’t have an angle all their own when it comes to the place. It’s fine, he’s used to it; but it makes things so much fucking harder.

He took a risk and was given that rarest of things: a second chance. Crowley doesn’t like risk these days — well, that’s a lie. Apparently he’ll risk his fucking feelings, gas pedal, full speed ahead. But he can’t risk the vines.

———

“My dear,” says Aziraphale, now happily perched on the tasting bar watching Crowley close up. “Are you sure you don’t want any help?”

Crowley shrugs, grins. “In the time it would take for me to show you where everything goes, I can be finished,” he says. “Just sit there and look pretty, angel.”

It comes out of his mouth casually, but Aziraphale blushes a bit, wiggling at the attention. It’s a good look on him. “I’m sure you’ve had much fancier adornments here,” he says, and it’s a bit sly — is Aziraphale flirting with him?

Crowley wrings out the rag, wipes down the back counter. “Well,” he drawls, “the Apocalypse is pretty nice. You can have second place.”

Aziraphale gives an adorable little huff at this, and finishes off his glass of Lion’s Den. His eyes flutter shut and Crowley watches, yearning and desperate. He loves the way Aziraphale tastes things: his entire face gets involved, eyebrows tightening or lifting, tongue moving inside his mouth, breath held in his lungs as he enjoys it. (He can’t remember Aziraphale’s face after they kissed. Crowley wonders what he might taste like.)

“What can I get you next?”

Aziraphale’s kaleidoscope eyes open. Here in the dim light of closing they look grey: pale, soft, hints of a cool blue. Aziraphale’s eyes are color-changing, offset by his environment and mood. Crowley loves them.

Aziraphale glances down into the bin with the day’s open bottles. “What else should be emptied?”

Crowley laughs. “You aren’t here to be the — an alcohol disposal, angel. You can drink what you want.”

“I’d rather be helpful,” Aziraphale says primly. “It isn’t like there’s a wine of yours I don’t enjoy.” And isn’t that a statement? Crowley glances over and even though Aziraphale’s up on the counter he’s somehow looking at Crowley through those pale-blond eyelashes. As if he knows what those kinds of words do to Crowley.

“Fine.” Crowley sighs dramatically, sauntering over to paw through the bin. “Here, Judith Reserve, less than half a glass in there. May as well pour that out.”

Aziraphale does, smug, and Crowley leans in to knock his shoulder against Aziraphale’s leg.

It’s a quiet night. Aziraphale had come in for dinner - Brian’s cream of asparagus soup paired with a tomato-mozzarella panini - and had tucked himself in a corner, writing contently, while the last lingering tasters left. Anathema had seemed overtired, so Crowley had sent her and Newt home with half a bottle of Honey and Psalms. The Them had left earlier, citing some kind of conference meeting they had with another client, so now it’s just Crowley and Aziraphale. (Warlock is, apparently, in the middle of some sort of twenty-four hour online game marathon with some friends of his in Britain.)

And now it’s just Crowley and Aziraphale, and a clean and sorted tasting room.

Crowley pours himself a full glass of Lilith and comes to lean his elbows on the tasting counter, next to Aziraphale. He spends a moment or two staring at his hands around the glass: his long knobbly fingers, dirt under his fingernails, bruises on one hand and a scab across the back of the left where he’d caught it on some wire. Working hands. He’s exhausted.

The silence is comfortable, peaceful.

“Penny?” Aziraphale asks him.

Crowley shrugs. He considers telling Aziraphale all about Bee’s offer, about his thoughts and his plans, but — but that leads to the story about his past, and about Her, and he isn’t _quite_ sure he’s ready to share that one yet.

“If you had three acres of land, for vines, what would you plant?” Crowley asks instead. He finds, after saying it aloud, that he’s actually quite interested in the answer.

“Sangiovese,” Aziraphale says immediately. “Absolutely. Or maybe Negroamara. No, Sangiovese, definitely.”

Crowley snorts. “I meant land here, angel, but alright.” He sips. “Why?”

Aziraphale swirls his glass, looking down into it. “Sangiovese is the key to so many of the classic red blends. Chianti, of course, but also Carmignano, and oh — Tignanello.” His pronunciations sound authentic, although Crowley can’t quite place the language - Italian? French? He can barely speak English - and his voice is incredibly fond. “Blend it with a bit of a Cabernet, or Bordeaux, or even a bit of Syrah — mmm.” He makes one of those noises that Crowley wants to pull from him with his mouth.

“You’d go for a red?” Crowley asks instead.

“Sangiovese is a very common — grape, I suppose,” Aziraphale tells him, but I think it would be splendid to experiment with. Some pure Sangiovese wines can be quite intricate.” He laughs, amused. “If we’re dreaming, I’d pair it with a goat farm, and a bakery. Fresh crusty French bread, goat cheese, and a class of Brunello every day. I’d write a book about it and die happy.”

Crowley chuckles. “An entire book about one meal?”

Aziraphale, to his surprise, giggles. “Well, it certainly wouldn’t be a novel, dear boy, but the way those tastes and textures combine and reflect what they come from? Absolutely. Fresh bread deserves its own chapter.” He pauses. “Or maybe three.”

“Do tell,” Crowley replies, intrigued.

“Water, yeast, flour, and salt,” Aziraphale tells him. “That’s all. And yet so many variations on it!” He leans in to press his arm against Crowley, gesturing with his glass. “Just like this. Wine is just grapes and age, yes? And yet. And _yet._ ”

Aziraphale _lights up_ like this and Crowley’s smitten watching. His eyes are eager, face open and bright. Crowley considers standing up straight, placing himself in the V of Aziraphale’s legs. Moving to taste Judith off of those plump lips, wine-red; to taste the light of that eager smile. Sure, the name was a stupid joke about his blog, but Aziraphale’s never looked more like an angel than when he gets into his element.

Crowley can’t help but grin up at him, crooked and broken. Something must be showing on his face because Aziraphale glances down and blushes, his face softening out. “Oh, what is it?”

“Nothin’, angel,” Crowley says, and it’s so full of fucking affection that he wants to die. He blinks, looks away. Looks back. Can’t help the way he’s looking at Aziraphale, now. Fuck. “Nothin’ at all.”

“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale says - whispers - and then there’s tension in the air, sharp and thrilling, a hot clenching in Crowley’s chest.

Their faces are a foot, maybe two feet apart. For them to come together, it would have to be intentional - a deliberate move, on both their parts - Aziraphale’s eyes flicker down to Crowley’s mouth and the unexpected _hunger_ on Aziraphale’s face has Crowley gasping, his lips parting. He wants, he _wants,_ it’s stupid but it’s perfect and they haven’t talked about it at _all_ and Crowley can’t move as Aziraphale’s hand slowly comes up to his face.

“May I?” Aziraphale asks. Soft. Crowley can’t do anything but nod, and then Aziraphale is gently removing his sunglasses, setting them down on the counter with a small click.

Aziraphale smiles, warm and broad. “That’s better,” he says. Gentle. Confident. As if Crowley’s eyes aren’t unbalanced and odd; as if Crowley’s face isn’t all sharp angles and lack of symmetry. Aziraphale’s looking at him like he’s something incredible, some new vintage of wine he’s dying to taste.

The door slams open behind them and Crowley _jumps,_ fuck, Aziraphale startling so bad he nearly slides off of the counter, and Crowley yells some kind of noise that’s more vowel than consonant and Newt comes peering around the door, looking terribly embarrassed.

“Sorry.” He glances at Crowley, then Aziraphale, and winces in apology. “Anathema forgot her glasses. Tripped over a chair, hurt her ankle, wouldn’t stop yelling until I came back to get them.”

Crowley makes himself laugh. His heart is racing, light, and he feels breathless. “Well, remind her that she’s opening tomorrow morning, broken leg or no.”

“My dear boy,” Aziraphale says, flashing an unreadable glance at Crowley. “Is she alright?”

Newt grins awkwardly. “Bruised but fine, yeah, mostly angry at herself.”

He scutters off back to the office he and Anathema share - more a storage room than anything - and Crowley breathes in, deep, exhaling slowly over the top of his glass.

“I should head out,” Aziraphale says, something tight in his voice.

Crowley nods, shrugs. Stretches. His heart isn’t pounding, no, he’s as relaxed as ever. “Take anything home with you?”

Aziraphale’s eyes are heavy on his face for a moment. “Not tonight,” he says finally, after a long moment of silence.

———

It’s alarming any time Adam comes and skulks around the door of Crowley’s office. It’s even more alarming when Wensleydale walks right in, slim laptop in hand, and the rest of The Them follows.

“Is this a fucking mutiny,” Crowley says, ready to make a run for it.

“Don’t be wet,” Pepper tells him. “We wouldn’t warn you if it was a mutiny.”

“What are you _warning_ me about,” Crowley adds, getting even more nervous. What the fuck? They normally don’t descend on him _en masse._ (This had better not be about Aziraphale, for fuck’s sake.)

Brian finishes dragging two chairs into Crowley’s office and they all gather round and shut the door. There’s a bit of silence as Crowley looks frantically between them and tries to figure out what the hell is going on.

Then Adam snorts. “You were right, Pepper, he looks terrified.”

“I am terrifying,” she agrees.

“I am not...!” Crowley growls, trying to regain some composure. He kicks back into his chair and lets it gently roll into the wall behind him. “Terrified. A bit alarmed, maybe. You’re like a teen gang coming to steal my lunch money.”

“Actually,” says Wensleydale, “Brian is only thirteen years old.”

“And your mom loves it,” Brian says, sprawling back into his chair and giving Wensleydale two middle fingers.

“Children,” Pepper warns, and Brian simply rotates until the middle fingers are pointing at Pepper.

“Seriously, though,” Crowley says. “What the fuck. I think the last time I had to talk to all four of you at once was when I fucking hired you.”

“No, you hired Brian,” Adam points out. “The rest of us are here as contractors.”

“What-the-fuck-ever,” Crowley mumbles. It’s _so_ not the point.

“Bee Bubston has sent us a proposal,” Wensleydale announces, and it’s like the temperature in Crowley’s office is immediately twenty degrees too high.

“What the _shit,_ ” he hisses. “Behind my back?”

“Crowley,” says Adam, lifting a hand. It’s all he really needs to say. Crowley, who is determined to be mad about this, sulks anyway, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Everyone and their mother know we practically live here.” Pepper rolls her eyes, again.

“The thing is,” says Wensleydale slowly, opening the laptop and shoving some things out of the way to make room on Crowley’s desk for it. (The fuck does he think he is? Those are very important ... snake shaped ... paperweights. Critical. Delicate.)

“I think we actually need to consider it,” Wensleydale finishes, and Crowley puts his face in his hands.

He doesn’t want to fucking _talk_ about this. He wants to pay off his fucking loans and be _free_ of fucking H.E.L. Law and their stupid name and stupid Dagon with her stupid nails. Crowley wants to go outside and sit in the dirt for a while. Fuck.

“Right,” Crowley groans, into his hands. “Talk to me.”

“What’s your plan for this place long-term?”

The question hits like a goddamn bomb and Crowley leans back, dropping his hands to glare at Adam.

“We do your books,” Adam reminds him. “We take care of your financials. We work your taxes. But we’ve never done a ten-year plan.”

Of course they fucking haven’t. Crowley’s only been here eleven years max, and the first like - five, six? - of those were basically him shitting his pants over everything and rolling in mud. He doesn’t have a ten-year plan because he can’t even think ten fucking years ahead. He can’t think ten _days_ ahead. The place is still running on the skin of his teeth and a prayer to _someone._

“Is this a sell-up?” Crowley asks, to buy time. It isn’t his _nicest_ tone of voice. “Aggressive sales pitch? Here’s an add-on for the low price of nineteen ninety-nine.”

“Oh, it’s a lot more than that,” Pepper tells him, and Crowley actually snarls.

“Crowley,” says Adam, and Crowley meets his eyes.

Adam’s always been the leader, and not just because he’s the technical director of their little consortium. There’s something about Adam that can make one believe he’s lived through a thousand lifetimes and seen a whole bunch of nonsense shit — even though Crowley knows he grew up in some tiny shit town in England, moved to the States for school, and never left. That doesn’t change the fact that there’s sometimes a weight behind Adam’s words, as if he’s looking all the way through Crowley into the back of his skull, and catching all of the messy bits in-between.

“I know you run this place as if everything could fall apart next week,” Adam tells him. It’s almost _gentle_ and it makes Crowley want to run out into the vines and scream. “But you’re doing well. _Really_ well. What do you want to be doing ten years from now?”

 _This,_ Crowley thinks.

 _Ecdyses_ is the second chance he never should have gotten. There’s no way he deserved it. Crowley figures that in all of his alternate lives out in the cosmos, this is probably the only one where he really gets a second chance after losing so much. He doesn’t want any more risk. If he loses this, he’ll never recover.

“Just,” Crowley says, and his voice cracks and he hates the way The Them all pretend it hasn’t. “Just this.”

“Right,’ says Adam. “Well, _just this_ requires investments. It requires maintenance, and upkeep. What are your thoughts on it?”

Crowley’s current thoughts on it are that he doesn’t want to think about it. He wants to throw himself out of his shitty glass window (his office has the largest window, of course, but that doesn’t mean he’s excited about fitting himself through it) and run off into the Zinfandel. Maybe become a worm. Or a snake, like _Ecdyses_ is meant for. There’s a brief second where Crowley considers telling them all that he kissed Aziraphale, just as a distraction. Then the thought makes him want to swallow his tongue and throw himself out the window for life.

Instead he gathers together every ounce of his swaggering shitbag person and says, “Thoughts. Yeah. Plenty of those, you know. Big thinker, me.”

“Right,” Pepper drawls slowly. “So, what are they?”

Crowley babbles nonsense for a good thirty seconds before he announces, finally, “Look, it’s hard to explain on the spot like this, right, give a man a moment to get his shit together first, ehh, you know.”

“Anthony,” says Wensleydale. Somehow, Wensley is the only one able to use Crowley’s first name without driving him up the walls and into space. It’s probably because Wensleydale - whose first name is, in fact, Jeremy - has also been known for so long by his last name that he understands when to bring out the proper first for dramatic effect. “There are, actually, a couple of financial options here. Would you like to hear them?”

Crowley would like four shots and a bottle of Apocalypse, but yes, he would also like to hear them. He sprawls back in his chair and nods, splaying limbs everywhere like it’s a yoga class, wondering if he should take notes.

“Right.” Wensleydale pulls up something on his laptop and Crowley considers throwing _that_ out the window, then following it. “There are a few options if you want to continue dealing with Hell Law” - which is what they all call it, of course “- and not all of them involve giving up ownership. Then there are options if you’d like to look for another bank or loan institution, and then there’s the option of …other investors.”

Wensley’s voice goes a little off at the end of that sentence, a little odd, and Crowley wants to ask about it until something catches up with him and he bursts out, “No, _no,_ I do _not_ want to continue with Hell Law, I want to get rid of them and their sticky fingers and their not-so-subtle attempts to buy this place out from under me, Wensleydale, _Jeremy,_ I actually would love to give Hell Law twenty middle fingers and tell them to suck my copious dick.”

Wensleydale blinks, and Brian says - from the corner where he’s leaning back himself - “Copious? Average, really, I might think.”

Pepper turns on him, mouth open wide. “Brian, how the hell do you know what—”

Brian’s grin is broad, almost smug, and Crowley can’t help but bark out a laugh even though the whole joke is at his expense.

Wensleydale _giggles._ Pepper rolls her eyes and mutters, _“Men,”_ under her breath. Brian crosses his arms over his chest, looking proud.

Adam’s sitting very still, in the middle, and even though his eyes are on something on the desk Crowley knows, somehow, that Adam’s watching him for _something,_ and he’s not entirely sure he likes the subtlety in it.

“Okay then,” Wensley says into a silence that isn’t necessarily awkward but feels like it might be on the highway leading to a neighboring city. “So you’re open to other financial options. Good. Would you mind if I did some research to see what’s available?”

Crowley shakes his head, dumbly, like a puppet. He doesn’t like when things happen that he wasn’t expecting, and he wasn’t expecting this.

“And on that note,” says Pepper, sharp and clear. Pepper’s always been the creative branch of the outfit; she and Adam come up with the best ideas, but Pepper’s the one that understands how to take ideas and make them practical enough to actually happen. “You’ve got three acres out there doing fuckall, Crowley. What are your thoughts there?”

“One of them is still anchoring,” Crowley says, but weakly; he’d tried to bring in a cheap thing maybe five years ago, and it hasn’t really taken to his ground. That being said, grapes _can_ take years to adjust, so he isn’t really ready to give up on the whole thing just because Pepper is making her upset face.

“You’re such a blanker,” she tells him. “I’m going to come up with a couple proposals, based on the local market development. See if it makes sense to bring something new in here, or to set it with something known. There’s a lot going on in Napa and Sonoma right now, we might be able to jump on something early.”

Crowley considers arguing, and he just doesn’t have the brain cells to do it. “Go ahead,” he says, sounding weary, as if this is something he’s dealt with at least a dozen times.

“Right,” says Adam, and the _way_ that he says it makes Crowley sit up: makes him think there have maybe been a couple other conversations going on beneath the surface. His stomach is suddenly filled with panic and his brain is trying to replay everything that was said, anything he may not have caught; Adam seems to be able to tell, and he’s suddenly laughing, but it’s a kind laugh.

“We’ll do some work,” says Adam, “and you do some thinking. We’ll have another talk, a couple weeks from now.”

Crowley throws himself back in his chair, letting it roll itself into the back corner, and watches The Them as they leave his office.

——

After all of that, when he gets a text from Aziraphale, it isn’t at all hard to accept.

_Crowley, It appears that Warlock will be heading out with his friends to some concert in Fairfield. The house will be empty, and I happened to come across a few of my traditional European favorites in a grocery store the other day. Would you at all like to come up, tomorrow night, and do a little bit of tasting? I know Sundays are your short days, so I’m hoping a Saturday night won’t be too disruptive to your plans._

Crowley doesn’t want to think about Bee, or about Hell Law, or about the future and his fucking three acres that are waiting and his fucking ten year plan. At this point, going to drink with Aziraphale and pretending he knows what he’s tasting sounds _far_ more enjoyable than sitting here and listening to his own brain.

There’s a bit of irony that he’s turning to Aziraphale - who has occupied fifty percent of his brain capacity this week - to distract himself from the issue of future planning, which has occupied the other fifty percent of his brain this week.

Well, Crowley’s not perfect. He has a lot going on. And drinking wine sounds excellent.

———

“Here,” Aziraphale says, pushing a plate across the table.

Crowley blinks. There are four small servings on the plate, all of which seem particularly and distinctively prepared. There’s a stack of buttery crackers, two kinds of cheese stacked against each other, a piece of chocolate cake, and then what looks like some kind of sausage, possibly spicy. The plate could easily appear on the front of a magazine and Crowley is - fuck - incredibly overwhelmed.

“Aziraphale,” he breathes, not even able to use the nickname. “What the hell is this?”

Aziraphale gives that very obvious shoulder-wiggle that he does when he’s distinctly proud and happy, and Crowley has to hide a grin at it. ‘Well, if you must know, I was thinking about a few of your _comments_ about wine tasting, and I thought it might be a fun activity for tonight. That is, trying a tasting,” he continues, suddenly wringing his fingers and looking away. “If you’re interested. I’m sorry if I’ve overstepped.”

“Oh, angel,” Crowley says, and it’s far too fond and he swallows and looks away, fisting his hands, until he can speak again in a normal tone. “Not at all. You said the other day you’ve been writing about my - I mean - er,” and he has to look away again and try not to let the deprecating noise out of his throat. “Look, ‘s interesting to listen to you, too. Go ahead. Let’s have it.”

“Oh, my dear,” Aziraphale says, and Crowley’s almost embarrassed to hear the gratitude in his voice. “Very well. I think this will be fun, my boy!”

Crowley then watches as Aziraphale brings out a good number of wine glasses - eight, ten? - and sets them out on the table. There are four bottles he brings out initially, and then another two, until Crowley’s staring down a ridiculous amount of wine with his eyes obviously wide.

“I don’t expect to get through all of this, don’t worry. But we need a number of different flavors in order to have a satisfying tasting! And there are plenty more snacks in the kitchen, oh, I’m not expecting this to be our entire meal.”

Crowley honestly isn’t that big on food — he eats, sure, but he’s more likely to have small snacks all day than he is a meal. He cooks simple things: steamed vegetables, a burger, toast with tomatoes and cheese on top. Complex flavors and extensive meals are far out of his normal experience. But, then again, wine is right up his alley, and with the number of glasses there, this sounds fabulous.

He sits, leaning back, watching through his dark lenses as Aziraphale putters around the kitchen. He’s humming something that to Crowley’s ear sounds like a mix between Italian opera and the Beatles, which is far more endearing than it should be. There are a number of plates in the kitchen that appear to be holding a lot of different kinds of food, and Crowley casually eats a cracker as he watches Aziraphale open three bottles of wine.

Once everything is settled, with Aziraphale across the table - this bizarre, incredibly long dining room table - there are four glasses poured for each of them, one a double serving as compared to the others, and a number of other plates sitting between them.

“Angel,” Crowley says, and it’s all that he can say. Aziraphale has obviously prepared for this - very much - _too much?_ \- and Crowley suddenly feels terrible, an unworthy participant in something that means so much to Aziraphale, and he’s fairly sure he won’t be able to do the spread justice.

“Oh, hush, Crowley,” Aziraphale orders, and picks up the single glass of white waiting with them. “Taste this.”

Crowley drinks. He can taste average skin thickness, great sun, more tannins. “Chardonnay?”

“Yes,” Aziraphale says, beaming. “Get your mouth used to it, first. Then I want you to try it with this cracker.”

Crowley does, as ordered. The cracker is buttery, a faint taste of toast, the crispness dissolving nicely on his tongue. He follows it with another sip of the Chardonnay, and this time he can taste butter in it, alongside the bright green of its leaves and the depth of its soil.

“Oh,” he says out loud, and Aziraphale laughs, a free happy sound Crowley isn’t sure he’s ever heard before.

They move through the pairings and the tastings: Aziraphale leading, speaking, and Crowley simply partaking, tasting, responding. He only takes a small bite of the spicy sausage - whereas Aziraphale eats all of his and Crowley’s share too - but he can still agree that chorizo is terrible with Chardonnay and lovely with a Zinfandel. The dark chocolate cake is not good against a delicate Pinot Noir, but it’s lovely against one of the strong European wines Aziraphale has brought to the table. By the time they get to the goat cheese Crowley is laughing, freely, leaning back against his chair with a glass of Sauvignon Blanc, having disposed of the terrible blue cheese Aziraphale had made him pair with the light, floral wine.

“I’m done, I’m done,” Crowley cries, laughing. His mouth is aflame: he’s tried his best to follow the flavors, and now his tongue is overloaded, too many tastes lingering over all of his tastebuds; he feels like he needs to go lick the ground outside, peel apart the roots of his vines and chew on that to neutralize his palette. “Angel, I’m done.”

“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale gushes. “This is really only a small part of it, my dear.”

“Sure, angel, but my mouth isn’t nearly as well-trained as yours,” Crowley manages to get out. He’s drinking this Sauv too fast, but he needs to somewhat quench the number of tastes that are echoing at the back of his tongue. “Give a man a break. You’re gonna need to ease me in slowly.”

Something changes in Aziraphale’s gaze, then, and Crowley’s wayyy too far gone on wine and flavor to be able to follow it. “No, you’re right, dear boy. This is far too much. Here, have more of this — you liked the Garnacha, yes?”

Crowley can barely remember what day it is, let alone the number of wines they’ve sampled, but he _thinks_ he liked that one, so he empties his glass and then slides it over towards Aziraphale. The other man fills Crowley’s glass, and then another glass, which he slides towards himself and the last plate of crackers and cheese.

Aziraphale looks so solid here, so thick and anchored. It may not be his true home, but Crowley can tell that Aziraphale feels comfortable here: firm and well-grounded. It’s incredibly attractive, and Crowley can feel his heartbeat pick up as he sits there and feels Aziraphale’s rhythm.

Crowley can’t tell whether he’s had too much or not enough to drink, but his pulse is sharp and his senses are tingling, yearning for touch.

He sips, lazily, as he watches Aziraphale wrap things up in plastic and foil and paper and then tuck them away: into the cupboard, the refrigerator, the shaded pantry. There was a crusty bread Crowley had actually liked, and he grabs a piece of it as Aziraphale’s taking it away; Aziraphale grants him a look, arched and knowing, and Crowley stuffs the piece of bread into his mouth to keep him from doing anything else ridiculous.

There’s something settling in the kitchen: not yet thick, but something like the fog that rolls in off of the sea and the river; it’s the thing that brings dew to the leaves of his vines, that touches his dirt with moisture it needs, soaking but not drowning. Crowley sits on his stool, relaxed and happy, letting it rise around him until he’s quite caught in it.

Aziraphale pulls plastic wrap over the last of the plates, tucking it into the fridge, and comes to reclaim his own glass; he lifts it, gestures forward, and Crowley raises his own to ring against it. It peals like a bell: a windchime in a storm, a single lovely clear note echoing through the empty house. They both drink, their eyes on each other, and then Aziraphale sets down his glass and reaches out to put Crowley’s down on the counter as well.

“May I,” says Aziraphale, soft, a hand wrapping its way around Crowley’s cheek, and Crowley breathes out a _yes_ and closes his eyes.

Aziraphale’s mouth presses against his. Crowley can feel tension melting inside his bones immediately, and he lets himself sag into Aziraphale. The other man is strong at this moment, a solid source of support, and Crowley lets Aziraphale’s hand guide his mouth along. Aziraphale kisses like he isn’t sure he’s ever going to have another chance, and the intensity of it is astounding. Aziraphale’s mouth is not demanding, but it is _constant,_ an unceasing, unrelenting movement, and Crowley’s so incredibly lost.

It should feel like it’s sudden, but it’s been building for - minutes, hours - days - _weeks,_ between them, and all it feels like is some kind of buzzing electrical whine finding ground and settling down into the wet earth. Crowley shivers, a full-body shake, and for a moment he can’t help but devour Aziraphale’s mouth, all slick suction and an intensity he’s never, ever felt before in his life.

Aziraphale laughs, suddenly, something bright and light like bubbles, and he says, “Is this —” and Crowley just surges forward, hands and lips and mouth and every element of himself pressing out into Aziraphale until Crowley’s laughing too, and their laughter is being passed between them, presses of their mouths against skin and lip and throat, oh, _fuck,_ hes goddamned dizzy with it and he has no idea what he’s doing other than saying yes, _yes_.

Crowley brings both of his hands up to Aziraphale’s face. One he immediately laces into those thin, bright-blond curls, and they’re _so_ soft, fuck, he can’t, he can’t fucking manage. His other hand is cupping the base of Aziraphale’s face, thumb right below his lips and fingertips round his ear, and Crowley’s possibly _dying_ at this.

There’s a noise from his throat, unbearably wanting, and Aziraphale murmurs something and licks into Crowley’s mouth. He’s _lost,_ fuck, his tongue barely responding against Aziraphale’s onslaught. Crowley may have thought before he had an upper ground: he no longer thinks so. Aziraphale’s hands are on him and Aziraphale is kissing at his lips, his throat, his chin, like Crowley’s the last course in their tasting exercise, and — oh, Crowley’s _melting_ , hell, he’s weak; Aziraphale’s mouth is too much, too _fucking_ hot, and Crowley’s entire body wants to bear down under it: wants to be smothered beneath that weight.

Crowley realizes he’s standing, now, being pressed solidly against the island in the middle of this ridiculous kitchen. Aziraphale has one hand wound into Crowley’s long hair and another wrapped firmly at his waist - firm fat fingers strong around the fragile curve of his hip, a grip Crowley couldn’t escape even if he wanted - and Aziraphale’s kissing him like this is the delicacy he’s been waiting for at the end of the meal.

Every single _fucking_ nerve in Crowley’s body feels like it’s on fire. He tugs Aziraphale in, closer, so much closer, because that solid weight leans up against his and his bones stop shaking, everything feels aligned and _right_ and he’s bending down into Aziraphale’s face - he’s a few inches taller; how did Crowley never notice - and then kissing him, desperately, furiously, licking his way into Aziraphale’s teeth. He can taste the wines and the bright cheese and he feels like as his tongue flicks against Aziraphale’s he can taste that bright green shoot, his own property, and _oh, fuck._

Aziraphale shifts until that thick solid thigh is between Crowley’s, and Crowley lets loose a moan into Aziraphale’s mouth that he would be embarrassed about except that he can feel Aziraphale’s length, hard as rock against his own thigh, and he tips his head back as everything that’s happening catches in his throat.

Aziraphale, of course - always the epicurean - bites at the exposed skin of Crowley’s throat, and the heat from it trails all the way down Crowley’s spine into his own groin; his hips move, thrusting against Aziraphale, and he makes a noise that’s even more of a whimper than anything he’s ever made before.

Aziraphale pulls away from Crowley’s collarbone and lets his head rest, breathing into Crowley’s neck, panting wetly. Crowley lowers his hands to wrap them around Aziraphale - shoulders and waist - and he pulls the other man in for a different kind of closeness. Here, they aren’t grasping and gasping; here, he holds Aziraphale’s head against him, and Aziraphale’s hands wrap around his slender frame and hold him upright.

“Angel,” Crowley finally murmurs into Aziraphale’s ear. He has no idea what he’s going to say with it.

“Oh, Crowley,” says Aziraphale, and they stand there in the kitchen, embracing for a long moment.

———

The Chardonnay is, in fact, blossoming.

Bloom usually comes five to ten weeks after budburst, but it’s affected by so many things: the sun, the heat, the rain and the fog, the reigning temperature and the number of leaves the vintner leaves on the vine and the percentage of small shoots that are trimmed against those that grow. This blossom is early, for the Chardonnay, but Crowley knows how to manage it. From here he only needs to measure the number of days that are sunny, and he can recalculate the growing season based on that.

His ground smells rich: thick with nutrients, moist from the rain, alive and gleaming. His heart, still beating hard from Aziraphale, agrees.

Crowley would have - never - he wouldn’t have - _fuck,_ shit, he isn’t - _fuck - god fuck the fucking shit_ can he even make a sentence.

He bends down and plucks a blossom off of his vine. It smells fresh, bright; hopeful.

He never thought Aziraphale would return - any of this - shit. Crowley hadn’t really even thought Aziraphale might be interested. Is this something he can have? Is this, really, truly, a thing that’s available?

No. It can’t be. Crowley moves along the vines, checking how many of the buds have gone to shoot and how many have gone to blossom and how many are still translucent tendrils, because he needs to be able to adjust his expectations along these vines. And if these are blooming already, the other vines might as well - and he’s going to have to rework the entire model, as conservative and mushy as it may be —

—and Aziraphale kissed him, for _so long, oh fucking bugger shit,_ how in _fuck_ is he going to be able to focus on anything?

Crowley’s out in his soil and his vines and they’re blossoming around him and it’s so delicate and fearsome and the only thing he can think of is the next time he’s going to be able to bring Aziraphale’s precious mouth to his own—

—well, fuck.

Crowley twists his bare feet down into his dirt and sighs, smitten and relaxed, wanting and desperate. He suddenly feels like anything might be a possibility.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so hey fuck forgive me
> 
> i am looking for a couple things:
> 
> \-- art? I'm adoring all the art eganantiquus is making I'm fucking dying what else can I bribe you with my darling to get more art (or bribe others) (fuck look idk)  
> \-- so I'm also looking for a good omens discord that's still... active? I'm a mod in Tickety Boo, but once it got hacked it hasn't been the same since, and I would really like a GO discord I can come scream in when necessary. IDK, what's out there? My discord is Sevdrag #1043 and please friend me if you like! ANYWAY like what's out there my loves
> 
> as ALWAYS i LOVED your comments on the last chapter and I will reply to ANY questions either here or [on tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/sevdrag) lkfjgkjdfhg i fucking love all of you darlings, you support me on tumblr you're great here fuck I hope this chapter isn't trash


	10. Floral Flavors and Blossoms On The Vine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything is going swimmingly, Aziraphale thinks. Of course it is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh my god, everyone, i need a moment to be soft.
> 
> \- this fic has almost 500 comments. It has twice the comments that it does kudos (for whatever reason). i know a lot of them are my replies but i CANT not answer when someone points out something i especially like and im just. Wow. every single time i post is wow.
> 
> \- y'all in this fandom have welcomed me into a number of lovely discords and i'm just ... overwhelmed at how friendly and welcoming this fandom is. not that i expected different but it's so great to have this kind of response??? (as usual, i have already caused like three feral breakouts and am somehow a mod for a new bingo, because im like that, why) i just. i have been writing for GO for a year now but somehow i never got into the FANDOM and wow you're all amazing, seriously. (and feral. i like feral.)
> 
> \- people are drawing fanart. i can't. every time someone mentions it i want to cry.
> 
> \- i just. every time i write this fic i think to myself that no one wants to read two old man humans doing their weird particular things and every single time i am blown away by you. i have to be soft out at this fandom. you are all absolutely lovely, every single one of you.
> 
> on to this chapter! man, this was fun to write. FIRST OF ALL, we are upping our rating in this chapter (WHICH WAS UNPLANNED. AZIRAPHALE JUST GOT TOO HORNY I GUESS????) so for anyone smut-averse you'll want to skip the kitchen scene and move on until you see the next breakpoint (------). but. uh. yeah they really jumped the gun here but it fit SO WELL. [insert meme about "how do you explain to a non-writer that you don't actually control your own characters" here.]
> 
> second of all, man, Aziraphale's mindset at the moment is... so. i've been in this mindset a lot; i have functioned in this mindset continually, with the "this is fine" and the sublimating and it was incredibly entertaining to write this Aziraphale who is saying all these things and then has so much other shit rumbling underneath. I really hope it came across. 
> 
> AAAAAAANAYWAY i hope you enjoy the smut and i hope you get a real feel for Aziraphale's state of mind. The next chapter is subtitled "Fruit Set and Crowley Tells A Secret", and will be here in ten days!~

> To: Gabriel Archer <garcher@fta.com>
> 
> From: A. Z. Fell <a.z.fell@fta.com>
> 
> CC: Michael Rosa <mrosa@fta.com>, “Warlock Dowling” <warlock.t.dowling@amx.cre.us.gov>
> 
> Subject: First Chapter
> 
> Hello Gabriel.
> 
> Everything continues to go quite swimmingly here!

Aziraphale’s fingers stop on the keys. It isn’t necessarily a _lie._ Things are going quite wonderfully. He’s blogging, he’s writing, everything here tastes lovely, and Anthony J. Crowley kissed him back in this very kitchen! Aziraphale wonders whether the exclamation point is too much. He finds it rather superfluous, but Gabriel just uses _so many,_ and Gabriel’s the one Aziraphale is trying to keep happy.

> As we discussed on Friday, I’ve attached what I think will be the first chapter of my California novel. You’ll note that there are still placeholders in the text — that’s because I’d like to fill those in with some information on the life cycle of the vines which I don’t have at the moment. Nevertheless, it should give you an idea of the feeling and mood I’d like this novel to carry. I do hope it’s more to your liking. I’ve worked quite hard on it.
> 
> Thank You,
> 
> Aziraphale

He attaches the separate file he’s created, and stares at it.

This isn’t the book he wants to write. This chapter can be saved, certainly; it isn’t entirely tosh. But Aziraphale is... well, see, it’s a bit of an experiment.

Gabriel had been so hard on the first snippets Aziraphale had sent, though. It had been quite disheartening. So Aziraphale had set that particular document aside and ...started another.

He’d taken his first chapter and, well, torn it apart. He isn’t an idiot; he reads what gets posted on his blog, and he knows the style of writing FTA prefers to see. So Aziraphale had picked through his _perfect_ first chapter, deleted anything too personal, and added in a whole bunch of upbeat, perky, positive _junk sentences_ of the sort he’s seen inserted into his own articles.

He’s curious whether Gabriel will like this version better, or if, well. Aziraphale needs to know. Is Gabriel’s problem with his work because of the work, or because of Aziraphale himself?

It isn’t against the rules. In fact, he’s doing exactly what they’re paying him to do — cater the book to FTA’s particular tastes.

As for the book - the real book, the one that sits hovering in Aziraphale’s _heart,_ the one whose words seem to leap from his fingers to the screen with no effort on his part - as for _that_ book, it sits open on Aziraphale’s tablet as he slowly adds to it.

No one needs to see that one yet. This new chapter — it’s much safer.

Aziraphale hits _Send._

_———_

“Read your chapter,” Warlock says out of nowhere.

They’re sitting out on the giant patio at _Le Petit Voile_ , conquering a bottle of Meritage from a little place called _Cernonym_ that they’d found the week prior. Warlock had managed to fire up the ancient-looking grill sitting in the gravel next to the driveway, and had triumphantly prepared hot dogs and grilled corn from the fresh stash Madame Tracy had gifted them with. Aziraphale had to admit that, while he wasn’t necessarily a fan of the _hot dog_ in principle, having one smothered with ketchup, relish, and the taste of Warlock’s victory over the antiquated charcoal was actually quite an enjoyable experience. (One was a lie. He’d had three. Warlock, incessantly hungry, had eaten five.)

“Oh,” Aziraphale says, very intelligently. Then, a breath later: “You know you don’t need to. Not yet. Copied you as a formality, dear boy, not as an assignment.”

“Yeah, I know.” Warlock stretches out his long legs in a move that reminds Aziraphale of Crowley’s decadent sprawling. “Wanted to see.”

Aziraphale swallows. There’s a thin line he has to walk here; he doesn’t want to admit to Warlock (yet) that he’s deliberately sending Gabriel something that’s not exactly his best and most genuine work, but he also doesn’t want Warlock to think he’s shite at his job. “I was most careful to keep the style Gabriel had asked for,” he replies, carefully.

Warlock snorts. “I could tell,” he says, and Aziraphale winces, ready for the criticism. “He’s going to like it, though,” Warlock adds, and Aziraphale relaxes back into his chair.

“Good.” Aziraphale swirls his glass, agitated, but then breathes in the aroma. He’s fairly sure this is some kind of Pinot Noir and Syrah Meritage, and it’s absolutely rich with unusual notes; it must have been oaked for at least three years, because it’s absolutely full up with spices: rosemary, vanilla, cloves, possibly licorice. The Syrah is absolutely dominating the Pinot Noir, but Aziraphale can taste the Pinot in the aftertaste, the way that incredibly complex mouthful fades into blackberries and blueberries. He still needs to write this place up; he’d intended to do it over the weekend, but then Saturday night had been so ... _incandescent_ ... Aziraphale had been basically useless all day Sunday, wandering around the house humming and smiling randomly at ugly furniture.

He suspects Warlock knows something has happened, but as Warlock had spent the evening at Adam Young’s apartment, Aziraphale isn’t quite sure what Warlock thinks he knows.

“So,” Warlock says, topping off his glass and accidentally killing the Meritage. “Shit. Sorry, do you want it?”

“Oh, no, my dear boy.” Aziraphale shakes his head. “There are so many new bottles inside. I’m happy to open another.”

“Anyway,” Warlock continues. “What do you think of this place so far? We’ve been here what, two months?”

“Has it really been that long?” Aziraphale asks, knowing the answer.

Warlock grins and cackles a bit. “Keep up, old man.”

Aziraphale looks out. The sun has just set, leaving the sky streaked with color down near the horizon and gapingly empty above them as night pushes through twilight. He still doesn’t know who uses the vineyards around the house; are they for show, or does some local winery actually tend and care for and harvest these vines? He hasn’t seen any sign of labor, but then again, he doesn’t spend every minute in the house.

“This area is breathtaking,” he tells Warlock, his voice hushed. “The sights, the scents, the tastes — everything is so _new_. But in a good way,” he adds hastily. “New to me doesn’t mean new to the area, of course! It’s just...” Aziraphale trails off, pensive. “It’s like nowhere else I’ve ever been.”

Warlock makes a noise of agreement and Aziraphale glances over; the other man is now crumpled up into his chair like a piece of paper, legs tucked under arms and head resting on what might be an elbow; Aziraphale isn’t sure. He’s watching the horizon, and there’s something thoughtful on his face that sounds a companionable note inside of Aziraphale, as if it’s echoing something he himself feels.

“And? What about you?”

Warlock Dowling has traveled to so many places with Aziraphale, and Aziraphale has watched him bear them all with the same aloof American aplomb that had him hiring Warlock in the first case. He’s expecting the same kind of answer, some sort of warm snark, reminding Aziraphale that people are alike everywhere and Warlock’s job is so portable he could do it from the loo.

But instead, Warlock sighs, and it’s almost _wistful_ to Aziraphale’s ears. “I love it,” Warlock says, and it’s so casual that it takes Aziraphale a full minute to hear how absolutely raw it is, how hard it is for Warlock to admit something like that.

Aziraphale knows Warlock’s parents have done quite a number on their only child, but there are moments like these - moments he can _hear_ it - that really resonate with Aziraphale; these moments that reveal to him just how much Warlock keeps his real self under wraps, so careful to only dole it out in pieces, protective and cautious. Warlock’s so good at self-image and Aziraphale wonders where he learnt it: is it a reflective thing, from his distant father and overbearing mother, or is it intuitive?

Aziraphale has worked with Warlock for years and he’d like to think he knows the young man better than most, but there are times Warlock remains a complete mystery.

Aziraphale glances over, realizing his silence may have come across as judgment, but Warlock is staring at the horizon.

“It isn’t a city,” Warlock continues after a few moments of silence, and Aziraphale’s heart warms when he realizes Warlock’s opening up to him somewhat. “The towns here are tiny. Each winery can be half a mile, a full mile apart. It’s just... people out here, just people being themselves.”

It’s an interesting take. Aziraphale takes a moment to think about it. Warlock grew up in a collection of giant cities with the weight of politics bearing down upon him; it shouldn’t be so surprising to find that the young man enjoys this kind of space.

“It is,” Aziraphale says, trying to sound encouraging. He thinks of it for a moment, and then says, carefully, as the thought has truly just occurred to him: “The land here is as important as the people.”

“Yes,” Warlock says, enthused. He drinks down his glass, and then stares back out at the cloud-spotted horizon as he swallows. “The space here. Every bit of it’s important. The land, the vines, the wineries, even what they call downtown. No one bit’s better than another.”

It’s an interesting statement. Aziraphale considers it in light of what he knows about Warlock, and that makes more sense; for someone who’s had to navigate his entire life based on the ability to understand which people are most important, maybe this leveling is revealing.

They sit, silent, for a couple more minutes. The light at the horizon is slowly dimming, and Aziraphale is continually glancing upwards to try to see when the stars begin to reveal their faces. It’s only round 15C, even though it’s already June, and Aziraphale tugs his comfortable cardigan closer to his body as he watches the sky darken into true night.

“Another?” Warlock asks, and Aziraphale makes a noise of approval. He has room for another glass, certainly.

“Shall I choose?” He offers, because Warlock hates having to pick what to drink; he usually waits for recommendations, either from Aziraphale himself or from whatever expert they’re speaking to at the chosen vantage point.

“I could live here,” Warlock says eventually, as neither one of them has moved. “I think I could live here, Az.”

Aziraphale looks up to the sky, where two stars have emerged, shimmering thinly against the fading light.

 _I think I could too,_ he thinks.

“I’ll go grab us something,” he says instead, standing up. “Shall I bring out the chocolates?”

 _“Please,”_ Warlock groans, dramatically desperate, and Aziraphale smiles a secret smile to himself as he moves inside to choose their next target.

———

> To: A. Z. Fell <a.z.fell@fta.com>
> 
> From: Gabriel Archer <garcher@fta.com>
> 
> CC: Michael Rosa <mrosa@fta.com>, “Warlock Dowling” <warlock.t.dowling@amx.cre.us.gov>
> 
> Subject: Re: First Chapter
> 
> Aziraphale!!!
> 
> I’m amazed! Astounded! You’ve possibly knocked me off of my feet — what does that saying mean anyway? Knocked my socks off? What are all of these analogies about footwear even about?!!
> 
> Anyway, this selection is brilliant! It will certainly need some editing, haha, it’s okay, no one’s expected to be perfect their first time around, but — my boy, you are absolutely on the right track!
> 
> Keep up the good work and you’ll have a published book in no time!
> 
> Send me some nice photos, if you would - or get your boy to send them. Your boss needs a little pick-me-up after last week’s budget meeting, if you know what I mean!
> 
> Have fun,
> 
> Sincerely,
> 
> _**Gabriel A. Archer** _
> 
> Director, Content Management
> 
> Food & Travel Adventures _(FTA, INC, All Rights Reserved)_

———

 _Ecdyses_ is full when Aziraphale heads over on a Friday night, dropped off by an eager Warlock; his assistant is apparently heading off to pick up his friends for another video game night at _Le Petit Voile_. A busy winery is good news for Crowley, so Aziraphale just tucks himself into his usual corner table and brings out his tablet; he’s used to this, settling in and working on something until the tasting bar opens.

It looks like two larger groups at the tasting bar: one is maybe a family, the way they’re interacting with each together, while the other is a group of young women that may be celebrating an engagement, a wedding, or just a happy week on vacation. It’s endearing to watch; Aziraphale doesn’t like unnecessary noise or rowdy groups in public, but this small collection of women seems so genuinely _happy_ he can’t bring himself to be too upset. Instead, he watches them surreptitiously, plucking sentences into his open document slowly, as they come to him.

He spots Crowley after maybe twenty minutes at his table, and as always happens, Aziraphale’s breath catches in his throat. Aziraphale’s no fashion victim - he has his own tastes and that’s that - and yet everything he sees Crowley in seems the absolute epitome of flattering. Today Crowley’s bustling around behind the tasting bar with his hair down, those copper-red curls tighter and sleeker than usual; they bounce forward and back over his shoulders as he laughs and look so soft Aziraphale wants to go tangle his fingers in them again. Crowley’s wearing black jeans and a short-sleeved burgundy-red button-down, buttons open to the middle of his chest, such that Aziraphale has a clear view of his clavicle as well as a dusting of burnished-red chest hair. There’s a silver necklace round his neck that catches the light as he moves, and Aziraphale thinks he might be the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

It’s a dangerous thought, but oh, Aziraphale can’t help it. It’ll end how it ends, but at the moment, Crowley’s gleaming like a sunset and all Aziraphale wants is to set his teeth into that dusky lip, to put his mouth to the line he can see beneath Crowley’s shirt, and to see what happens.

Instead, Aziraphale manages to write an entire three sentences before he looks up as Crowley clatters into the chair across from him. Crowley is bright, loud, glowing; Crowley can sprawl enough to take over an entire chair and then some, whereas Aziraphale can only tentatively occupy a space as if he’s waiting for it to be taken back.

“Angel,” Crowley drawls, obviously in a good mood. The sunglasses are anchored on his face and his mouth is loose, happy; he gathers his hair up and tugs it over his left shoulder, grinning as he pulls it into place. “How’s the evening?”

“Oh, it’s delightful,” Aziraphale says. He hasn’t written more than fifty words the entire time he’s been here, which is not really a good thing, but Crowley’s glowing from his pores and Aziraphale wants to taste and that’s really taking over his mind at the moment.

“I see you don’t have a glass,” Crowley says. He has one arm splayed across the table and one wrapped over the back of the chair at some angle Aziraphale isn’t sure he could obtain himself without yoga. “What can I get you?”

“Oh.” Aziraphale demurs, ducking his face. “There’s no rush; you have customers.”

Crowley makes one of his loud laughing noises, and Aziraphale can’t help but smile. “I’ll go see what’s open,” he tells Aziraphale, and presses himself up from the chair in a feat of flexible beauty, heading back behind the bar.

This is nice, Aziraphale thinks. Everything that has happened with Crowley has been nice. There’s really no use in overthinking it, not now, and when you filter out all of the anxiety and caution that normally comes along with this kind of thing, it’s absolutely delightful. He watches the breadth of red hair gesture this way and that until Crowley has two glasses in hand, full, and works his way free of Anathema at the bar.

“Here we go,” says Crowley, as he impacts again onto the free chair. “The Rains. Pinot Gris. It’s warm out there, angel, let’s manage that.”

“Oh, thank you, dear boy,” Aziraphale says, and he watches Crowley’s face flush a beautiful petal-pink as Aziraphale lifts his glass and sips. The Pinot Gris is absolutely gorgeous: a thick lavender floating over peach and melon, with a nutty-vanilla ending echoing around the mouth once the wine has been swallowed. It’s perfectly chilled. He’s had it before, but he always forgets about it until Crowley brings it out. It’s an entire bouquet of flavors right down his throat, and it leaves his taste buds tingling.

Crowley jerks his head towards the tablet. “How’s the writing?”

Aziraphale bites his tongue for a moment. The truthful answer is, _I’ve absolutely been distracted by the cut of your shirt and I’ve only written a few words._ The safe answer is, _Oh, I’ve written a good bit of this next article._ Instead, his mouth sort of garbles both approaches, and he says, “I’ve written a bit, but maybe not a lot.”

Crowley grins. “What,” he drawls, “is this a bit distracting?”

Rather than obfuscating, or even demurring, Aziraphale laughs and tucks his chin in. “You know you are,” he murmurs, at a tone where he knows Crowley will hear him, but he also knows Crowley can pretend not to hear if it suits him.

Crowley seems to choose the more weighted middle ground. “Don’t let us keep you from writing your incredibly flattering articles,” he says, and the sprawl seems to take over more square footage, as if Crowley’s expanding. “I’ll keep feeding you wine for that.”

“Oh,” says Aziraphale, with a bit of a spark in it. “Do you think I’m that easy, my boy?”

The response seems to throw Crowley, but not in the _oh god no_ way, more in the _are we really going there_ way; his grin goes open, crooked, and _oh heaven_ but Aziraphale wants to press his thumb against Crowley’s lips, now open with amusement.

“Not sure yet,” Crowley drags out, across the guttural lines of his throat. “Maybe we’ll see.”

Aziraphale sips again at his glass. He hasn’t really paid much attention to this particular wine - the others seem much louder - but honestly it’s a perfectly balanced deliverance of tartness, sweetness, and smoothness. It doesn’t should or yell; instead, it just sits in perfect harmony, sliding over Aziraphale’s tongue. It is a bit hot today, Aziraphale thinks, knowing that his eyes continue to drag down to the skin across Crowley’s collarbones. Heavens, but he wants to taste.

“This is lovely,” he tells Crowley, gesturing with the glass. “Although I must ask. How on earth do you come up with all of these names?”

Crowley barks laughter again, his head tilting back briefly, the lovely lines of his throat flashing. “D’you know how many people ask me that?”

“I’m sure quite a few,” Aziraphale tells him, letting a bit of a smirk out. “You’re not subtle, my dear.”

“I’m not?” Crowley asks him, almost coquettish, and a frisson of thrill lights up in Aziraphale’s belly. The flirting is nearly as delicious as the kissing, now that they’re both on the same page and all.

“Adam and Eve.” Aziraphale tilts his head. “Apocalypse. Magnificat. Come now, someone’s got a _thing_ for the Christian bible, it seems.”

Crowley snorts into his own glass. “A _thing,_ ” he says, pronouncing it with at least four too many syllables. “Sure, angel, you could call it that.”

Aziraphale resists pointing out that even the stupid nickname has biblical overtones. He’s very proud of himself for doing so. It deserves a bit of a proud little wiggle. “Does it have anything to do with the mystery of how you got this place?”

He remembers Crowley’s reaction the last time he asked, and he’s careful to keep it casual, teasing, as flirty as possible. It’s a success; this time Crowley’s grin goes wide and smug and he makes one of those indescribable noises that have far too many vowels and says, “wouldn’t you like to know.”

“I would indeed,” Aziraphale murmurs, and it falls into the space between them all charged and hot. His skin is prickling and he watches as the flush on Crowley’s face deepens. It looks like it may be trying to crawl down his throat to spread across his chest and oh, heavens, Aziraphale wants to see that happen.

Crowley, to his surprise, tilts his sunglasses up to level Aziraphale with a searching look. Aziraphale’s always captivated by those eyes: the glimmer of gold and the deep dark brown, such jewel-like facets to both of them. His breath actually catches in his throat and he feels ridiculous, foolish, until he sees the way Crowley’s watching it, the way Crowley’s mouth parts a bit at the realization.

“Maybe I’ll tell you someday,” Crowley says finally, dropping his shades back into place. It’s like a shock — the first time Crowley’s expressed any sort of reluctance since their lips first met, as tentative as it may be. But he’s still smirking, and Aziraphale wonders whether he’s meant to take it as a challenge. _How serious are you?_ Crowley seems to be asking.

Aziraphale’s not sure he has an answer to that yet, other than the desperate mental urge to fly forward, full speed ahead.

So he tilts his head, lips pursing up into a smile, and says calmly, “I’d like that, my dear boy.”

The flush, he finds, does spread down across the bit of Crowley’s collarbones that he can see. It’s as delicious as the rest of him.

_———-_

_Labels. Aren’t they interesting? We say we taste strawberry, raspberry, blackberry, as if our mouths can make the distinction. Now, put the fruit itself in front of you, and close your eyes. Your mouth can differentiate, yes?_

_Sometimes we can’t, though. And isn’t it freeing? There isn’t always a need to label. Not all things must be defined down to their bare bones; not all things need a proper title, a proper description. Sometimes things can be left unnamed._

_Flavors and tastes are like thoughts: they aren’t tangible, they cannot be touched and held, they cannot be passed to another. Some situations require the sorting, the naming, the defining — but others do not. There are times it is enough to simply sit and feel without the need to categorize and differentiate._

_There’s a beauty to things that don’t quite yet need to be framed; those things that can, for a while, defy description. There’s something quite delicious and thrilling in that undefined space. It’s the potential: the way that, for a long moment, it could be anything. It could be raspberry or it could be plum. That anticipation, that sensation: the breathless pause at apogee. That, there, that moment. There is a beauty in it unlike anything else._

_And why do we always push to label a new thing? Can we not let it go, let it be? Enjoy the sensations: the touch, the taste, the feel. The sounds, new things our ears are unaware of; notes of beauty, played on an unfamiliar instrument. Must there be a rush to speak, to name? I simply want to exist in that moment: to enjoy without thinking, without translating, without talking._

_Please, do not make me name this too soon. I am not ready. I do not want to ruin it with so much thought and too many words. Please, just let me taste at this altar; let me be allowed to feel, to give, before it all must be ruined._

_I am not good with labels. For a man of words, this seems unusual, but there’s a weight to it I’m not ready to bear. Please, let me have this thing for a while, before it must be alphabetized and stored away._

_———_

Everything is _fine._

There are three emails in Aziraphale’s inbox from Michael, with increasingly urgent headers. The first one’s subject reads _A note about your latest;_ the second one follows that with _Another note, about your latest._ The third email just reads: _Open this email, Aziraphale._

He hasn’t opened any of them.

Oh, he will, eventually. But Aziraphale feels like he knows what they’re about.

His mind has absolutely been in the _clouds_ lately, thinking incessantly about Crowley. He’s been spending so much energy just considering - remembering - _daydreaming_ \- that his last two blog posts have been, well, what’s the phrase? Phoned in. He’s let his hands write drivel sentences so that he has something to post. They aren’t absolute garbage - Aziraphale is a writer; he knows his craft - but they certainly aren’t his normal quality of work.

He had been banking on Gabriel, who truly never reads anything Aziraphale writes. He’d absolutely forgotten about Michael, who’s much more clever.

But it’s alright. Aziraphale’s had his ups and downs before, in the past. Even his doldrums writing is better than a good number of other writers out there. He can weather his way through anything. He just has to figure out his story and fend off Michael, and all will be well.

> To: A. Z. Fell <a.z.fell@fta.com>
> 
> From: Michael Rosa <mrosa@fta.com>
> 
> Subject: Open this email, Aziraphale
> 
> AZF —
> 
> Curious. This isn’t your best work. Blogs haven’t been either. Problems? Need to fix this before Gabriel catches on. Call me.
> 
> MPR

Well. That’s certainly straightforward. Then again, Michael often is.

But Aziraphale absolutely does _not_ want to call Michael at the moment. He needs to get his brain in order: figure out the angle he’s going to use on Michael, prepare his response, make sure all of his little emotional leaks and tells are securely fastened down before he speaks to her at all.

He has a routine he uses before speaking to Gabriel - most times, that is; Gabriel likes to plan things ahead of time, which suits Aziraphale nicely - where he takes all of the messy untended insecure things in his head and very neatly and carefully locks them in a box. He puts on the bland, polite, cheerful professional face that Gabriel prefers, he swallows his nerves down deep into his gut, and he presents the best version of himself the second he picks up.

It works for Gabriel, because Gabriel’s used to talking to calm, confident business people. Aziraphale can manage it long enough that Gabriel gets what he needs. It works about half the time on Michael Rosa, who is sharper and cleverer than Gabriel; Aziraphale will need a lot more time to prepare himself for this one.

So instead he replies:

> To: Michael Rosa <mrosa@fta.com>
> 
> From: A. Z. Fell <a.z.fell@fta.com>
> 
> Subject: Re: Open this email, Aziraphale
> 
> Hello Michael,
> 
> I’m not entirely sure what you mean, but if you’re sensing a problem I am always happy to hear your advice! I would hate to be posting sub-par work without realizing it! I look forward to talking to you.
> 
> Unfortunately I’ve an appointment with a local place today for a tasting, but I can call you tomorrow at your convenience.
> 
> Sincerely,
> 
> A. Z. Fell

Of course he has no appointment and of course he’s bluffing, but it will give him time to consider the best way to approach Michael about this.

And, of course, Aziraphale’s well aware that what he’s been putting out is not exactly his _usual_ work. He rewrote his entire first chapter to be more like what Gabriel wants — which is, of course, the conundrum: if it’s more publishable, more what Gabriel is looking for, doesn’t that mean it’s his top-tier output? Doesn’t that mean that his original writings - the secret ones, for now - aren’t as quality? Gabriel is the expert on the market. He knows what will work. Isn’t that the definition of a successful style?

(And yet: Aziraphale knows. He knows his secret, frantic, previous bits and pieces about the wines and the country and everything else are more genuine, more raw, have more feeling imbued in them than anything he could ever write in Gabriel’s style. He just feels it. But this is about convincing himself that Gabriel’s right, that FTA knows what it’s doing, and his - the Bullshit Book - is really the way to go to keep everyone happy.)

Aziraphale closes his tablet and frowns. Now he has to find somewhere to visit today, to support his cover. Maybe he’ll be able to focus enough to write a better blog post about it. Actually, that’s a lovely idea; it should also put Michael in a grand mood when Aziraphale finally calls her tomorrow. Excellent plan.

He texts Warlock - who’s upstairs, having an awkward face call with his parents - and dives into his notebook, looking for one of the many places Crowley has suggested.

———

“Once I tasted their Cabernet, I knew I had to have you over for some of it,” Aziraphale says. He’s fidgeting his way through the kitchen, pulling out the leftovers from their tasting dinner; there’s still some cheese and some of the prosciutto, and oh, Tracy has brought them some cherries. Perfect.

Crowley’s slouched onto the counter, elbows planted and hands fidgeting. He doesn’t look nervous or uncomfortable; he’s just tapping his fingers on the counter, like it’s the kind of thing he does. Crowley’s always so in motion - sprawling, stretching, running hands through his hair - it’s very endearing.

“Can’t stay all night.” Crowley’s fingers tap, but his smile broadens, softening it. “Everything’s flowering early this year. Gotta get out there early tomorrow morning and get a feel for it.”

“It has been ridiculously warm.” Aziraphale pours a healthy amount into each glass, sliding one over to Crowley. “In my opinion, anyway.”

“Don’t you live in Los Angeles?” Crowley asks, teasing and harmless, reaching out to snag one of the buttery crackers Aziraphale has tossed onto the platter.

“That doesn’t mean I enjoy the heat,” says Aziraphale, primly. “Lord, though, isn’t this a fabulous one.”

He takes a long sip. There’s no Cabernet Sauvignon at _Ecdyses,_ so Aziraphale doesn’t really feel too badly praising another vineyard’s wine.

“‘S good,” Crowley allows. “Must be great big grapes, these. Perfect balance of the terroir and the tannins from the skins.”

Aziraphale sighs. “I wish I could taste those things,” he admits. “But I’m overwhelmed by the chocolate and currant in this, to be honest.”

“Chocolate?” Crowley sniffs his glass. “You’re batshit, angel.”

Aziraphale grins at him. He loves this level of comfort, the teasing and the rapport. He reaches over and pauses, waiting for Crowley to nod before Aziraphale gently removes the sunglasses.

“There we are,” he murmurs as Crowley’s mismatched eyes come up to meet his own, and it’s far more intimate than he meant it to be.

“Oh, angel,” Crowley says, his voice low and rumbly and aching, and Aziraphale _cannot_ help himself as he leans in to taste that roughness at Crowley’s mouth.

God, how do they ever do anything other than kiss, now? Crowley makes a noise, his lips opening instantly against Aziraphale’s, his hand coming to rest against Aziraphale’s cheek. It feels heady, like they’re already drunk, like they’re already two bottles into an evening; Aziraphale’s hand moves of its own volition to tangle into Crowley’s luscious hair, pulling him forward. He can taste the wine off of Crowley’s tongue, and it’s like he’s tasting the vines where it grew, the sun the grapes took in.

This is so _delicious._ Aziraphale can feel the yearning want growing inside of him, burning bright in his chest, burning darker between his legs. He wants to devour Crowley; wants to slip open the remaining buttons on his shirt, peel it off like the skin of an apple. He presses closer, pulling Crowley in with his other hand on the small of Crowley’s back. Oh, he _wants._

“Angel,” Crowley murmurs, pulling away just slightly before coming back with another bruising kiss. “What are we doing, here?”

“I should think,” Aziraphale says, rather breathlessly, “it’s a bit obvious.”

Crowley chuckles into his mouth and oh, that’s _good._ Aziraphale brings his hand up Crowley’s back, dragging slowly across the sleek fabric, until he has both hands in Crowley’s hair, cupping his skull gently and tugging a bit. “No,” Crowley says against Aziraphale’s mouth, and pulls away again, the smallest breath. “I mean you and me.”

Aziraphale kisses him again because he’s absolutely unprepared to answer and most of his neurons are focused on the sweetness of Crowley’s lower lip. “My dear boy,” he says, pulling away to look Crowley in the eye, leaving his hands deep in Crowley’s hair. “What do you want from me?”

It’s _too_ honest but Aziraphale can’t take it back. It hits him in the gut, now, a simmering edge to the raw arousal that’s taken over: Aziraphale _wants,_ and he doesn’t want to think about the future right now, and if he doesn’t get better control over his mouth - his _mouth_ , on Crowley’s - he isn’t entirely sure what he’ll say.

Crowley’s laugh is equal parts amused and self-deprecating. “Fuck, don’t ask me that,” he says, and the longing and want in _Crowley’s_ voice is right there on the surface, waiting for Aziraphale to pluck at like the string of a guitar.

So he does, because he doesn’t want to answer the question of how fond he has become of Crowley. He doesn’t want to acknowledge that there’s likely to be no happy ending for this. He doesn’t want to know his time here has a deadline and doesn’t want to think about his apartment back in LA. Instead, Aziraphale does what he’s wanted to do all week and bends his head to kiss and lick the skin exposed by Crowley’s very low v-neck tee. He tastes at the creamy collarbone, peppered with freckles.

Crowley makes a _noise,_ all whine and want, and Aziraphale murmurs words into that flushed skin. “More than kisses, then?”

He can taste the next noise Crowley makes in his throat, in the way it moves under Aziraphale’s lips. Crowley’s neck arches as if automatic, revealing those lines of tendon that Aziraphale has wanted to trace with his tongue since the very first day he’d walked into _Ecdyses._ “Yeah, angel,” Crowley says, beautiful in it. “You have no idea.”

That sharpens the heat Aziraphale’s feeling; it coalesces in his bones, in the tendons in his wrists, in the way he continues to work his mouth along the lines of Crowley. “Same,” he says into Crowley’s skin; he breathes it into Crowley’s jawline. “Oh, my darling, you’ve no idea. So much more.”

This must catch somewhere in Crowley like a newspaper finally catching a match, because Crowley groans deep down from his gut and spins to press Aziraphale into the wall next to the refrigerator. Aziraphale allows the force, the compression, feeling the long hard line of Crowley’s body against his. It’s so incredibly erotic. He’s been watching these lines and angles for weeks, and now he can pull at them, tug them, mark them against himself. Aziraphale leaves one hand in Crowley’s curls and takes his other hand down to Crowley’s sharp hip; even through his clothes, Aziraphale can feel the jut of it, the dip in the skin. He lets his thumb run along the waistline of Crowley’s jeans, and he can taste the shudder that runs through Crowley all the way up to the back of his throat.

“Angel,” Crowley whines, and then a taut skinny leg is pressing in-between Aziraphale’s, as Crowley straddles his own thick thigh. Aziraphale’s breath catches in his throat as they realign; Crowley is sharply hard against his thigh, and the thought that someone as _striking_ as Crowley is this worked up over _him,_ over someone like Aziraphale, over his own soft curves and sheepish disposition. Aziraphale finds his hand traveling down to the slim tight globe of Crowley’s arse, and he grips it, tugging Crowley in against his own thigh even harder.

Crowley’s lips find the expanse under Aziraphale’s jaw and now it’s his turn to keen, unexpectedly, as Crowley presses him back into the wall with his teeth gently teasing at Aziraphale’s neck. “This, angel,” Crowley’s murmuring, and Aziraphale loses all ability to think as Crowley’s fingers dig into his hips. “Hng. Look at you.”

Aziraphale knows he isn’t much to look at but it doesn’t matter here, now, with Crowley breathing damp praise into his ear. Aziraphale’s hard, aching with it, blood rushing through his lungs, into his brain, pulsing between his legs. He’s alight with Crowley, all of his senses full of the scent of him, oh, the taste. Aziraphale defines flavors, that’s what he _does,_ and Crowley is the scent of rain and the sharpness of the grape.

“What do you want?” Crowley murmurs. His mouth is back on Aziraphale’s and he loses himself a bit in it: just _kissing,_ as their hands clutch at each other and their bodies press as if they’re trying to merge. Aziraphale can’t help the jerk of his hips as one of Crowley’s knuckle boned hands comes down to grip at his arse, and Crowley makes this groaning noise and grinds back down on Aziraphale’s solid thigh like he’s going to come in his pants.

“Oh, darling, dearest,” Aziraphale says, sings, praises; he _wants._ He doesn’t want to take this to the bedroom after all; there’s far too much there, the careful removal of clothing and the vulnerability of the sheets. He doesn’t want to have to talk, to have to define everything, and Crowley’s so lovely just here. “Can I touch you?”

Crowley grunts into Aziraphale’s neck as his hips thrust again. “Please. Yes. Can I—?”

“Yes,” Aziraphale tells him, but he’s already working at Crowley’s ridiculous belt and the button at the top of his jeans. He rubs his palm down the denim, feeling the heat and texture of it, Crowley’s hard cock twitching into the pressure. Crowley makes another garbled noise and leans in to press messy kisses along Aziraphale’s neck that feel _outstanding,_ so lovely, his skin tingling as Aziraphale lowers the zipper and slides his hand inside.

There’s a moment then, nothing but their breathing, Crowley’s cock warm and stiff in Aziraphale’s palm, the sense of a line crossed: skin on tender intimate skin, and _oh,_ the feeling of it. Crowley fits into Aziraphale’s fist like it’s meant to be. They’re far too old for this, Aziraphale thinks wildly - handjobs in the kitchen? He’s not a _teenager_ \- but it’s perfect here, this overwhelming moment with Crowley’s cock pulsing gently into his grip and Crowley himself, mouth resting open against Aziraphale’s neck, as if Crowley has forgotten how to move it. The silence stretches, waits, builds.

“Fuck, angel,” says Crowley, and Aziraphale comes back to his senses and lets his touch trail upwards, finding the tip of Crowley’s cock already a bit slick. He has Crowley here, beautiful stunning enthralling Crowley, and he wants nothing more than to taste this new meal as well. Aziraphale fists Crowley’s cock all the way down to the base and is rewarded with another one of those unintelligible sounds, Crowley’s hips thrusting against Aziraphale’s hand.

“Fuck. I — want,” Crowley manages, and those long fingers are fumbling at the button of Aziraphale’s trousers — his khaki trousers with the pleats in them, proper but not very flattering, and then Crowley’s palming him through the cotton of his pants and Aziraphale breathes in _sharp_ at it, the press of Crowley’s hand inspiring an ache that’s so good Aziraphale’s head tips back against the wall.

He keeps his hand moving, slow and steady, and his other hand tugs Crowley’s mouth back to his. It’s all sensation now: the taste of spring green in Crowley’s mouth, the way Crowley’s tongue traces against his own, Crowley’s knobby fingers wrapped around him. It’s a symphony. His ears are full of it, ringing like bells. Is he breathing? Aziraphale isn’t sure. Maybe it’s Crowley’s lips on his, breathing in the sweet scent of dirt and peaches.

“Angel,” Crowley is murmuring into his mouth, “angel,” and if Aziraphale’s this overwhelmed Crowley’s at sea: all of his usual strict composure lost, his affectations stripped away. He’s more naked in this kitchen then he would be in the bedroom, Aziraphale thinks, in the small part of his mind that isn’t drowning in the wine of Crowley’s touch.

He grips Crowley harder and is rewarded with a whimper. Crowley’s hand on him is speeding up, desperate, and Aziraphale speeds up in kind. Crowley’s cock is slick already, near dripping, and it’s so good: the heat of it, the way Aziraphale can feel the ridge of the cockhead as his hand slides up, the way Crowley gasps when his fist slides down to the base. He wants to see it, wants to taste it, but that requires more conscious thought than he can manage.

Crowley tenses against him, sharp lines leaning into Aziraphale. Aziraphale kisses him, murmurs “yes” at him, and Crowley shudders into a long groan as he comes all over Aziraphale’s hand, messy and raw, and _beautiful._ His mouth trails away from Aziraphale’s, pressing wordlessly along his cheek until Crowley’s head comes to rest against Aziraphale’s shoulder. He’s panting, still pulsing under Aziraphale’s hand, and everything is perfect right now, in this moment.

Aziraphale stops moving, simply holds Crowley’s cock and wiggles his fingers along it, working him through orgasm. Crowley’s hips jerk, once; Crowley’s hand is spasming around Aziraphale’s cock, and between that and the sheer overwhelming _event_ that is Crowley’s orgasm Aziraphale’s lightheaded with the need to come himself — but he will wait, he can wait, they’ve crossed this line now and it should be slow, and beautiful, and everything.

“Fuck,” Crowley whispers, into Aziraphale’s shoulder. His hyper-aware skin can feel the heat of Crowley’s breath through the fabric of his shirt. Crowley’s hand starts to work at him again and it’s almost blinding, the shift from an absentminded grip to a suddenly driving rhythm. Aziraphale can feel the tension growing in his hips, heat building, Crowley murmuring meaningless profanity into his skin.

“Oh,” he says, “ _Crowley,”_ all of his nerves lighting up his spine. His leg muscles clench and his hips jerk into Crowley’s fist; Crowley mumbles something like a yes and Aziraphale starts thrusting, gently, into the tightness of Crowley’s hand, working with Crowley’s rhythm. Those hands that work the soil, that pinch off shoots and direct the vines, those fingers that - yes - guide the leaves and the tendrils and the budburst, now coming fully into flower - _“Yes,”_ Aziraphale breathes, and climax hits him like a meteor.

His eyes clench shut but it doesn’t matter because his vision has whited out, muscles clenched with pleasure as his release hits. Crowley strips him with it, working Aziraphale’s pulsing cock _hard_ through it, to the point where his knees start to tremble as the orgasm spreads out through his body. Aziraphale can feel it in his _hands,_ in the soles of his feet, in his _teeth._ Heavens. As the force of it slowly starts to dim he hears himself gasping, little _ahs_ and _ohs_ as Crowley’s hand stills against him, covered and dripping.

Aziraphale can’t do anything but lean against the wall, holding Crowley with one hand in his hair and the other still in Crowley’s jeans. It seems Crowley can’t do much except lean into Aziraphale, though, and so they stand, both of them breathing hard as if they’ve climbed a mountain. Aziraphale can’t remember the last time he came so hard. His arms feel languid with it and theres a heavy-lidded heat of satisfaction pulsing between his legs.

Well, Aziraphale thinks though the fog of pleasure. Well. They’ve ended up here. Perhaps there can be more, between them; his orgasm-soaked brain flips through the pages of it, dinner dates and afternoon picnics and desperate snogging. The eventual journey to the bed. Crowley’s wild passion, untethered, all pretense dropped.

(And then the end: a parting, a return to LA, a friend to write to, perhaps. Aziraphale does not need to think of this now. Think of it as possible. It’s all possible, it all could happen. Don’t think about the ending.) 

Crowley seems to be coming back to himself, inhabiting limbs gone soft, sharpening back into angles. “Wow, angel,” he says, his voice low and somewhat wrecked. His eyes are wide, pupils still dilated, the flush on his cheeks a shade of red Aziraphale hasn’t yet seen: it’s a good look on him. Crowley’s lips are swollen, even as he bites his bottom lip in a momentary gesture of concern.

“Indeed,” Aziraphale replies. What a worthless reply. He wants to catch Crowley in his arms and kiss him until September, but the mood between them is now something tentative, dangerous, fragile and waiting. “Let me, er,” he says, moving towards the sink where there’s a washcloth they can use.

Washing Crowley’s hands clean is something precious; Aziraphale brings them to the sink, pulls them into the warm water, lathers them with soap. The entire time Crowley’s watching him, that brilliant uneven jewel-bright gaze on Aziraphale’s face. Aziraphale takes his time: pressing his thumb into Crowley’s palm, lathering each finger, rinsing them gently down. The feel of Crowley’s workworn skin is incredible, the textures built into those spindly fingers. He spends good long minutes doing nothing but tracing along Crowley’s knuckles before turning the water off and reaching for the dish towel.

Aziraphale dries Crowley’s hands as well, letting these motions say all the things he can’t. He feels like there’s something caught in his throat, a knot of anxiety bubbling up from that normally-locked box. It’s a tangle of feelings, too many to decipher right now, so instead he carefully dries Crowley’s fingers. It’s tender, still yearning even after the blitz of orgasm.

When Aziraphale looks up, Crowley’s still looking at him. There’s some kind of awe on his face, as if something Aziraphale has done has surprised him. That’s tender, too, the way Crowley smiles tentatively, almost unsure. Aziraphale doesn’t want him to be unsure, so he presses kisses to both of Crowley’s palms before dropping his hands and reaching out to cup his face.

They don’t really need to say anything, here. Crowley’s hands come up to press against his, slender fingers then wrapping around Aziraphale’s wrists. They don’t really need to say anything at all.

———

Aziraphale taps at the button to hang up on Michael and then, very carefully, sits back into his chair.

Warlock, across the table, has stopped typing notes into his own laptop and is staring at Aziraphale.

“Something’s going on,” Warlock says.

It’s an introduction, an _offer_ for Aziraphale to step in and tell his agent / manager / assistant what on earth has been on his mind. It’s also an offer Aziraphale has _no intention of taking,_ so he straightens his spine and keeps his bland mask of a smile on his face.

“It’s just a rough patch,” he tells Warlock cheerfully. “They’ve happened before, you know. You, ah, remember. I’ll work through it.”

“Something,” Warlock repeats, with a but more steel in his voice, “is going on.”

“Alright.” Aziraphale shifts under that stare, trying to play it off as if he’s still straightening his posture. “What in heaven’s name do you mean?”

Warlock raises an eyebrow as if Aziraphale has gone mad. “Aziraphale,” he says like an order. “I need you to level with me.”

Aziraphale is _not_ going to level with Warlock — yet. Of course at some point he’ll tell the lad he’s technically working on two versions of a book. At some point Warlock’s likely to find out that there’s something (what is it? what’s the proper term for a thing this glorious with no happy ending?) between Aziraphale and Crowley. But at the moment Aziraphale’s ability to cope is _full up,_ thank you _very_ much, and the _last_ thing he wants to have to manage is another hard conversation with his assistant.

“Everything is fine,” Aziraphale says.

He says this quite often. Because everything is usually fine! He has his weak moments, true, but then he works through them and afterwards _everything is fine_ , therefore it stands to reason that _everything should be fine_ even if his mind is preoccupied.

Warlock sighs. “Az, you know at this point I see right through you, so cut the crap. What’s up with the book?”

“I’ve told you and Michael both, now,” Aziraphale replies. There’s a low buzzing noise starting at the base of his skull. He ignores it. “I’m trying a different style that’s more like what Gabriel has been asking me to do. He _is_ the boss.”

“Yeah, well.” Warlock gestures frustratingly into the air. “The last bits and pieces you sent out were just... full of this, I don’t know, I’m not a book person, but they had this passion to them, this feeling that you were really putting yourself into those words.” He pauses. “This new version just sounds like Gabriel. There’s nothing of you in it, Az.”

Aziraphale laughs; it comes out a bit awkward. “Of course there is. I’m the one writing it.”

“That isn’t what I—” Warlock stops. Rubs his forehead, eyes shutting for a moment. When he opens them, his entire demeanor has changed. “Aziraphale. Are you alright?”

Aziraphale is not all right. He’s well aware that he’s swallowed a tangle of emotions, a ball of feelings that he’s going to eventually have to untangle before it chokes him. “Peachy,” he says instead. The way it comes out, even _he_ wouldn’t believe it; Aziraphale winces.

Warlock doesn’t say anything for a bit, looking at his hands. He eventually looks up with an expression that has Aziraphale squirming. “Az, my entire job is to get you what you want. If you’re not — if you’re not enjoying this, or if something’s wrong, it’s my job to make it work out. But you have to talk to me.”

“I _am_ happy here,” says Aziraphale, and he means it: he’s _desperately_ happy here, surrounded by all of these rich new flavors, these various hills, these new tastes on his tongue. He’s happy to be with Crowley, in whatever way. He’s well afraid he loves it here, which is terrifying: one of the things to lock up into the box. “Really, Warlock, it’s just a bit of a ...oh, call it writer’s block. The blog will be fine. I’ve already written up that fine Pinot Gris we had at _Lode Stone_ the other day. It’s much better.”

Warlock is shaking his head. “Zira. Az. Are you listening?”

“Yes,” Aziraphale says, a bit chagrined. He’s well aware of how seriously Warlock takes his work; it’s a bit rude to not acknowledge it. “I know you’re doing your best work, my dear boy. And I appreciate your concern. All I’m saying is that I’m... I’m enjoying myself, here, and maybe that’s sort of tripped up my writing a bit.” He nods; that sounds good. “I’ll find my tune again.”

Warlock gives him another one of those piercing looks. Aziraphale wonders where he learnt them; his father’s about as piercing as a blunt spoon, and his mother doesn’t have the strength of character. “Alright,” Warlock says finally, “but remember. I’m here for you.”

“I know.” Aziraphale pushes the chair back, stands up, grabs his tablet.

“No,” Warlock says, although he also stands up to leave the room. “I’m here for _you,_ Az. The whole reason I’m here is for _you._ ”

The way he says it stays with Aziraphale long after he relocates out to the back porch, to watch the sun start to approach the horizon.

———

_Imagine that you’ve just tasted the most delicious, delightful, pleasingly perfect thing in the world. Do you go back for another sip, another bite?_

_Can perfection improve upon itself? Maybe there’s a place where one taste is enough. Where the memory of that taste is something one can pull forward through the messy bookshop of one’s memories: a thing that can be summoned upon demand. But is the memory the same? It’s always a reflection, a thing that simply by being seen is thus changed._

_They say we look on memories though rose-tinted glasses. Maybe so. Maybe your most delightful thing becomes even more delightful upon reviewing, to the point where it becomes a pinnacle of taste, overwhelming and unreachable._

_What the hell am I even talking about. There’s no room in this metaphor for wine, or for carefully paired tastes of cheese and Cabernet; I’m writing about Crowley._

_[Placeholder: probably should delete the bit above]_

_I’ve been here in wine country for two months. Two months, nearly eight weeks, exploring the Russian River Valley and everything it has to offer. This is the kind of place it could take years to really know (eleven years? I believe?), and all I have are six short months, two of which have already been spent._

_I expected a vacation, maybe; a leisurely trip, a bit of a sacrifice made, six months on unfamiliar ground with a return to normality beckoning at the end. I expected a break; a sabbatical of sorts, a period of study and exploration, like a scientist given a new tool._

_Instead I feel the ground slowly pulling out from under me. Do you remember how it feels to stand on the beach? When the wave pulls back out, when the sea calls its water back, how it can feel like you’re losing balance? Have you watched the water and sand pull back around your feet and felt like you’re one breath away from flying, from falling, from being pulled out yourself into those oceans?_

_That is me._

_I already feel the core of my person changing. It is slight; it won’t change who I am. But it’s a redirection, bits of me I thought were long settled suddenly aligning to a new magnetic north. It’s adding a catalyst to a mixture. Adding the yeast into the juice of the grape, letting it slowly react: something is fermenting in me. Changing to become a new form of itself._

_It’s terrifying. It’s unexpected. And it’s also beautiful: a window opening inside me where I only thought a wall to exist._

_None of this will end up in the Bullshit Book, because it won’t sell. But someday, maybe, I’ll have the resources and the clout to publish this book, the one I’m really writing. The story of the Russian River Valley, of the Old Vines, of the budburst and blossoming and harvest._

———

“So,” says Crowley.

 _Ecdyses_ is closing down. Aziraphale’s just heading out; he’s gathered up his messenger bag, tablet safely ensconced. He’s left plenty of time since his last glass and now, patting his pocket to check for the keys to that ridiculous monstrosity they’re driving. It’s been a lovely evening, flirting across the tasting bar at Crowley, watching him at work, remembering the feel and grip of those lovely long fingers. Crowley’s wearing a soft grey tee today and Aziraphale wants to reach out and trace the collarbones he can see through it. There’s still a tension between them but it’s a good one, now, more like an _expectation,_ or a sense of excitement.

“Lemme walk you out,” Crowley adds, and Aziraphale starts. There’s something on Crowley’s face that he’s both intrigued by and a little worried about.

They walk over to the ridiculous Benz and Crowley rubs at the back of his neck before he blurts out, “So, we’re doing this then, yeah, the you and me thing. Uh. Right?”

It’s so awkward it’s absolutely endearing; Aziraphale’s face goes soft. He doesn’t like the anxiety in his gut, but the warm wash of fondness is worth it. He can see on Crowley’s face, now, how much it took to even ask.

“I mean,” Aziraphale says, mildly teasing. “We’ve been doing a you and me thing for quite a while now, my dear boy.”

Crowley’s mouth twitches. He makes a longish _ehhhhh_ noise that seems to come from the back of his throat before he manages to say, “Yeah, well, eh, I mean, you know.”

Aziraphale decides to take pity on him. He himself isn’t that great at these sorts of conversations, but he’s a writer: finding words is easy. “Yes,” he says gently. “What do you want to ask?”

Crowley swallows, adjusts his sunglasses. Tries to loosen his angles into his usual swagger. Oh, Aziraphale is so _fond_ of him. “I mean is this like a, uh, take you on a date kind of thing?”

What a charming idea. “It can be,” says Aziraphale. “Would you like to?”

“I, um.” Crowley adjusts his sunglasses again. Crosses his arms over his chest. “Yeah, I’d like to, angel.”

Oh. Somehow that hits _different:_ the fact that Crowley wants that, not just Aziraphale’s willing body or his presence on the outskirts of Crowley’s business. Aziraphale feels it like a punch, in the best way (worst way too). Crowley wants a _date._ Crowley wants to treat this like it is - like it is becoming - a _relationship._ Something twists inside Aziraphale’s chest. It’s exactly what he wants too and for some reason that feels horrible and thrilling at the same time. He _wants_ it. (Aziraphale has always been a bit afraid to want.)

“I’d like that very much,” he tells Crowley, and it comes out too soft and honest, but oh well.

“And is it,” Crowley continues, relaxing somewhat now that he’s found a bit of courage and encouragement. “Is it a kiss you goodnight kind of thing?”

Aziraphale’s heart beats so loudly he can feel it. “It could be,” he whispers.

“Right. Then.” Crowley’s still for a moment, just looking. Aziraphale’s eyes trace out his gorgeous face: those cheekbones, the sharp line of his nose, the red waves falling around his face. Aziraphale knows how soft that hair is; he knows how that jawline tastes.

“Good night, then, angel,” Crowley says, and leans in. The kiss is soft; languid. Aziraphale melts immediately. Why do they ever do anything except kissing? This is punctuation: the simple stop of a period, marking the end of a sentence, knowing one will come after. Crowley tastes of Chardonnay and Aziraphale lets his tongue lick at Crowley’s lower lip.

They part. Aziraphale is oddly breathless at the look on Crowley’s face, now, the way he licks his lips, the adoring tilt of his eyebrows.

“Good night, my dear,” says Aziraphale, and the words mean something different this time as compared to all the other times he’s said them, casually, a linguistic habit of his own. This time, he means them, and they weigh heavily on his tongue as he says them aloud: _my dear,_ he thinks, and it fits.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> some day i will stop writing 10K chapters. today is not at all that day. thanks for the sprints, DIWS.


	11. Fruit Set

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At least there’s one thing going right, because otherwise Crowley might be going full feral, screaming at the vines under a new moon like a witch from the old days.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> alRIGHT my friends I hope you are ready, because chapters 11-15 absolutely get us _into it_. I've named and fully outlined each chapter and whoo- _ee_ , let me tell you, I'm excited. (i'm not going to share them, cause they're teasers, unless y'all want teasers.)
> 
> thank you all for the support and the interest and the feral table talk and the love and just. slkdghljdfh. there are a number of times this story would have stalled if not for you.
> 
> this chapter is mostly a date (!!!). there is more smut in this chapter: it starts when they are making out on the couch and ends at the next section break. if you skip, the only plot point you're missing is that Crowley keeps some of his feelings in his pants, and the only writing tricks you're missing are a whole bunch of terrible food metaphors.
> 
> enjoy this gigantic lump (for real, 11k, WHY AM I LIKE THIS) of quintessential and shocking Crowley vulnerability. it had to happen.

Vineyard bloom is delicate. Grapevine flowers are hermaphroditic - meaning they don’t rely on bees or other pollinators to produce - but they have a fifty-fifty chance of actually setting fruit. The blossoms are incredibly vulnerable to any extreme: wind, cold, sun, a late frost, a long drought, imbalance in the soil. Since only half of the flowers will set into grapes already, viticulturalists do everything they can to protect these blossoms, because the odds are against them.

When a significant number of the blooms are not pollinated, this is called _coulure_ , or _grape shatter_. This can produce uneven growth, a grape bunch with berries of different sizes, and incredibly limited yield.

After bloom, the vines move into what’s called fruit set. Any flowers that have managed to self-pollinate will begin by forming small hard green berries on the vine. These little knots are what will eventually mature into the grape, which becomes the wine. Flowering only lasts for ten to fifteen days, but these two weeks can be incredibly critical. A single upset in this period can lead to a significant loss of blossom, which will drastically affect growth and yield.

Fruit set is the very first real indicator of how the season will turn out. Budburst is important; tempering and tending sets a framework; but fruit set is the point where a vineyard owner can really sit down and begin to calculate this year’s chance of success.

Of course fruit set drives Crowley up the wall. (All the seasons do. He considers finding it funny that every single step of growing grape vines fills him with unreasonable amounts of concern, and yet the process overall is something soothing, something grounding. It really isn’t funny when he puts it like that, though.)

The flowers on his vines are so tender, so delicate. How can he protect them? He can’t just hold his dirty, knobby, longfingered hands over the entire vineyard. Everything’s blossoming early - is it too early? - it’s the end of June - last year the Old Vines didn’t flower until after the Fourth of July - it’s a tension that sits in his shoulders, a weight pressing between his shoulderblades as Crowley spends hour after hour walking the vines as if there’s anything he can do at the moment.

Maybe that’s it: the lack of control. Vine flowers are spindly things, light and delicate, starting with only half a chance at survival; he can try to arrange leaves for shade and prune where he has to and that’s really all that can happen.

Things are already in motion. He just has to monitor for the next two weeks, and hope that he does everything right.

———

 _A date,_ Crowley thinks. How the _fuck_ did this happen? Where has he _been_ this entire time? Gaping at Aziraphale, yearning, not at all watching the way the vines have been weaving themselves into place? The new growth’s set in place, now, they’re on this ride and Crowley partially just can’t believe his own fucking luck.

No, there’s no guarantee there’s any kind of happy ending but shit, fuck, Crowley knows what Aziraphale tastes like now, what he _sounds_ like, and if they’re really doing this thing, Crowley’s going to do it the best he absolutely fucking can.

So: a date.

He’s already head over fucking heels for Aziraphale but it’s true that they haven’t done much of the traditional date stuff. Crowley paws through his phone, out in the middle of the Pinot Noir, checking out the usual places he likes, frantically trying to think of something. He’s just... Yes, he has a particular aesthetic and some pretty specific tastes. Sure. But it’s nothing like Aziraphale, who can taste flavors Crowley’s never even heard of (star fruit? Is that a thing?) and makes a living focusing on his food. Crowley wants something special.

There are a couple fancy places in Santa Rosa, sure, but Crowley finally makes his choice. _The Olive and Snake_ is this incredibly posh bit, situated in the middle of someone else’s vineyards, an old church that’s been refitted as the kind of restaurant Aziraphale probably expects. It’ll be a hit on his credit card, sure, but Crowley finds he doesn’t exactly care too much.

_**Angel. Any plans on Tuesday?** _

The response comes back nearly immediately; Aziraphale must have had his mobile close. Crowley’s well aware that he can misplace (or ignore) it for hours at a time, unlike Crowley, who’s glued to his.

_Nothing on Tuesday, and nothing on Wednesday morning, either._

Well. Isn’t that cheeky.

 _ **Pencil me in,**_ Crowley writes back.

It’s still nothing less than _batshit_ at how physically compatible he and Aziraphale are. Kissing the man is like connecting an electric circuit — or maybe finally connecting one to the ground, letting the normal static that resides in Crowley’s brain and his jerky limbs drain out into Aziraphale and dissipate. He’s never done anything like this before: clumsy handjobs in someone else’s kitchen, no privacy, no guarantee they won’t be found or walked in on, just so fucking _urgent_ with the _need_ to touch, to get his hands on Aziraphale’s skin.

Crowley can still barely believe he _kissed_ Aziraphale, out there in the vines, framed by the goddamn setting sun like his life’s a movie of some sort.

———

Crowley’s all crumpled up on a stool in the very back corner of the tasting room, legs somehow tucked underneath himself; he feels like he’s perching like a bird. It’s a bit awkward, but it suits the mood he’s in, watching customers come in and out, interacting with Anathema and Newt as they work their way through the usual tasting flights. His hair is down and his sunglasses are on and he wonders whether he can be still enough that everyone will simply think he’s a statue.

Adam pops around the corner, emerging from his office. “There you are.”

Aw, fuck.

“Here I am,” Crowley says, grinning a bit, and Adam tips his head a bit, taking in Crowley’s situation.

“You look ridiculous,” Adam tells him. “You look like someone folded an origami crane wrong.”

“You’re fired.”

Adam shifts his weight, presses the toe of his shoe against one leg of the stool. “I could tip you over right now.”

“You’d still be fired.”

“Boss,” Anathema says, breezing past Crowley with her arms full of empty bottles. “Why are you in crow pose?”

“No one cool works here,” Crowley announces to the space at large, but he’s already feeling better.

“We know,” Newt calls from the front, where he’s walking a collection of little old ladies through all of their darker reds.

Crowley wants to shift - his knees are starting to strain in this position - but now everyone’s looking at him, and that seems not ideal. Mainly because he’s likely to fall. “Get back to work,” he barks, knowing everyone’s going to roll their eyes at him anyway.

Anathema returns with fresh bottles to replace all the empties that now live inside their large recycle bin, and turns her friendly smile onto the family that has materialized in the open spot.

“Sorry if we overwhelmed you,” Adam says to Crowley, conversationally, and Crowley snorts. He doesn’t get overwhelmed. Ever. Especially by a bunch of punks like The Them.

“‘S not overwhelming,” he says, trying to sound incredibly offended. “Just the kind of thing I don’t have an answer for on the spot.”

“Why not?”

Adam Young, for all intents and purposes, is a mostly normal young man who has mostly normal interactions with anyone that isn’t part of his little crew. The thing is, despite the fact that Adam’s from very normal and basic stock, he has this _thing_ he does sometimes where he looks at Crowley as if he can see all the way back through Crowley’s brain, into the little whining thing he keeps tucked down in his own brainstem. (Anathema does something very much like it, but Anathema’s his best friend, she’s allowed.)

(Then again, Adam’s more than a contractor and employee. He’s had Adam out in the vines, working. Crowley wouldn’t let just anybody out to touch his vines.)

(Aziraphale’s been out there, too, those thick manicured fingers touching bits of Crowley’s vine to the tip of his tongue.)

“Crowley?” Adam hasn’t stopped giving him that look and Crowley realizes he’s let his brain spin off into Aziraphale-land again.

He sighs. “Couple reasons,” he says, realizing he’s going to be more honest with Adam than usual. “First off, I do a lot of this myself. Barely have time to think about ten years from now when I’m watching the Chardonnay bloom weeks early, yeah? And this place isn’t ready to hand off, not yet, remember the disaster of the 2010 Syrah.”

“We weren’t here in 2010,” Adam points out, but then he falls silent again, allowing Crowley space.

“And then,” Crowley continues, his mouth still running with this, “Hell Law sits there holding my mortgage, my loan papers, and they keep pushing for me to do shit and trying to sneak in here and discover any bit of weakness they can and I can’t think about _shit_ when I have to watch for fuckin’ Hastur and Ligur coming in here and writing me up, shutting me down, you know that.”

Adam looks at him for a long, long time, and Crowley eventually frowns and sticks his tongue out like a child because he doesn’t like the way Adam’s face looks like he’s seeing something Crowley can’t even put words to.

“I think you’re scared,” Adam Young says eventually, and Crowley snorts and rolls his eyes, prepared to yell about that a bit, except that Adam just gives him this weird smile and leaves.

Fucking kids.

———

 _The Olive and Snake_ is fancy in the way most things out here in California wine country are fancy: nice enough that it can be fun to dress up for, but casual enough for tourists wearing jeans and shorts. As if Crowley’s going to miss a chance to dress up, though, not now that he knows how heavy Aziraphale’s eyes are on him sometimes. It’s gently bubbling beneath his skin, like a hint of spice, just a bit of heat. Crowley may not be much to look at himself, but he knows how to throw together something devastating: he’s had to learn, to turn a few heads.

So here he is sitting outside _Le Petit Voile_ in the Bentley, wearing his black tailored suit: fitted trousers, a _very_ slimming waistcoat, sharp black jacket hanging from a hanger in the back. He’s wearing the burgundy buttondown he knows sets off the low tones in his hair, opened at least one button too low for decency. He can’t wait to watch how many times Aziraphale’s eyes trip up on it; Crowley still shivers when he remembers the intensity of Aziraphale’s mouth on his collarbone. He wants to encourage more of that. A lot more of that.

The door swings open, and Aziraphale steps out, smiling as he gestures at Warlock, who’s behind him. Crowley swallows. Aziraphale himself is in this delectable camel thing, the trousers still a bit old-fashioned with their pleats but spreading generously over his thighs, the jacket very obviously tailored to fit. His waistcoat is cream, the shirt below is some kind of intermediately-tan check that shouldn’t work but absolutely does. The bowtie is sky blue and Crowley wants it in his _teeth._

He raises his arm in Warlock’s direction, and gets a wave for his trouble as Aziraphale makes his way down the path. So, Warlock knows they’re going out, then; Warlock knows they’re dating. Crowley hasn’t mentioned it to anyone yet but he’s going to have to tell Anathema soon or else he’s going to spontaneously explode.

He stumbles out of the Bentley so that he can open the passenger door for Aziraphale, and there’s a moment when they both get a look at one another and it’s like another fucking romance novel moment that Crowley really wants to hate, but can’t. He watches the blush bloom across Aziraphale’s cheeks like it’s one of his vines. Aziraphale swallows.

He waits until Aziraphale’s settled, closes the door, and hauls himself back in on the driver’s side.

This shouldn’t be awkward, but there’s some kind of simmering tension in the air as they look at each other across the Bentley’s bench seat. Crowley’s struck with the sudden desire to pull the Bentley round back, lay Aziraphale down across this seat, and—

No, this is more than that. _More_ than that. They’re _dating._

“Hey, angel,” Crowley says, and it comes out low like a growl.

Aziraphale’s eyes go dark, pupils dilating. He looks like he’d rather have Crowley for dinner.

“You look good,” Crowley tells him, in an attempt to ward off a sexual tension that’s almost palpable. His Bentley doesn’t quite have the space for it (although, come to that, he’d certainly give it a try).

“You look like,” Aziraphale starts, and then he closes his eyes and breathes in sharply. “Temptation incarnate,” Aziraphale admits, and something wrenches in Crowley’s chest, sharp and needy.

“Well,” he drawls, “can I tempt you to dinner, then?”

Aziraphale’s eyes open. They’re blue, now, deeper than usual, the slim rim of color around the dark of his pupils surprisingly stunning. “You could tempt me to nearly anything right now, my dear boy,” he says, and it’s raw with honesty and arousal. Crowley is fairly sure Aziraphale didn’t intend to say it out loud.

 _Fuck._ Okay. If they can’t get a handle on - this - things are going to get out of hand. Crowley takes a sharp breath and shifts the Bentley out of park, slowly backing it down the gravel driveway of Aziraphale’s fancy rental.

He drives more slowly than usual, too aware of Aziraphale’s breathing in the seat next to him, those dark eyes flicking in his direction every few seconds. He wants to say something but isn’t sure what he wants to say — what he’d be able to say without making some terrible sexual innuendo out of anything. Even _what’s up, angel_ might be ...hard to answer.

(Oh, god, Crowley’s going to throw himself out of the Bentley for that one.)

Aziraphale, thankfully, clears his throat and makes the effort. “So where are we going?”

Crowley swallows against the sudden dryness in his throat. “Place called _Olive and the Snake._ Old church out in the middle of some land, fell out of favor, some locals bought it out and turned it into a restaurant.” He pauses. “It’s nice. Real posh. You’ll like it.”

Aziraphale’s usual wiggle has gone — the only word Crowley can think of is _slutty_ and that’s a word that just seems to bounce off of everything about Aziraphale entirely. “Oh, Crowley,” he says, that same note simmering low in his voice. “You do know you don’t have to pick somewhere posh — I’ve eaten in plenty of pubs before. With you, even.”

Crowley snorts a laugh. “I know, angel,” he says gently, “but I thought it might be a bit fun to get all dressed up, see.”

Aziraphale makes this _noise_ in the back of his throat and the oppressive air in the car thickens. It’s — it’s a strange mix, really. Crowley’s obviously ridiculously flattered, yes, not just by the blatant admiration burning tracks across his skin but also by the fact that someone so intelligent, so brilliant and articulate, someone as well known as Aziraphale (A.Z. Fell, Crowley reminds himself!) is this worked up over a relative nobody like himself. And yes, he’s interested, _damn_ interested: in the way that jacket curves over those broad shoulders, the cut of those trousers around Aziraphale’s delicious arse — and yet?

It’s certainly more overwhelmingly positive than it is negative, but the little yelling voice inside Crowley’s chest is starting to wonder whether this will end up as a friends-with-benefits situation after all. They just _want_ each other so badly — will it be anything other than this? If so, Crowley’s gonna have to prune real fast: it’s too late for gentle tempering, at this point, he’s gonna be hacking branches, throwing all of these things that have bloomed into grape shatter instantly.

Is this _dating_ or _a date?_ Is this a dinner that’s really just a premise for them to meet?

 _Fucking damn shit, Crowley. Get your goddamn shit together._ It’s their first officially defined date. He’s absolutely jumping the gun, just like he always does.

Where is the _switch_ to turn off his _brain._ Crowley realizes he’s been silent for far too long and Aziraphale is glancing at him again, but in a much lighter fashion than before. He looks actually concerned.

“Sorry, angel,” Crowley manages to get out. “Bit lost in my own head. I’m blaming your trousers.”

The joke, much to Crowley’s relief, lands, as Aziraphale blushes and glances away, flattered and embarrassed.

———

The thing is, it’s _much_ better once they get settled in at their table at _The Olive and Snake._ Aziraphale, giggling, suggests they forego wine completely and orders a gin and tonic. Crowley, who likes the idea, orders the same, with extra limes.

For whatever reason, having the cocktail somehow _separates_ this time, clearly delineating it from any other times they’ve been to eat together. The drinks are bright, fresh, suitable to the heat of the day - although the June weather’s still expected to cool to around 55 degrees Fahrenheit that evening - and there’s nothing in a gin and tonic for either of them to taste that isn’t the flavor of the drink itself. It’s as refreshing as the cocktail, Crowley finds.

And as such, the meal unfolds delightfully. Aziraphale orders them a starter, some bruschetta thing on crispy French bread; it’s thick with balsamic vinegar and basil, and Crowley’s surprised to find he could eat nothing but that for the rest of the evening. He’s usually picky with food anyway, and twice as much when he’s on a date, but this is _delicious,_ he finds.

Aziraphale has ordered some sort of stuffed ravioli dish in a cream sauce, and Crowley himself has a prime little piece of tenderloin with some mushrooms and a fancy mashed potato. It’s all locally sourced, farm-to-table fresh, their waitress tells them, and they chat about that for a while as Aziraphale makes orgasmic noises over his pasta (Crowley knows, now, something that sits in his backbrain waving a flag) and Crowley picks at his pepper-encrusted steak. He manages to eat most of it; it’s particularly delicious, red at the center and salty.

“Here,” says Aziraphale, leaning over the table with his fork extended, hand cupped beneath to catch any drips. “You absolutely have to try this.”

Crowley’s really not much for something that rich, but he obediently leans in and opens his mouth. He happens to catch the look on Aziraphale’s face as he feeds the bite to Crowley, and it’s — _fuck._ But then his eyes flutter shut because the sauce is not just creamy, but fresh: basil, lemon juice, maybe dill? He thinks he can taste white wine in it, too. The ravioli itself is full of some kind of cheese mix that’s almost sweet, and the flavors together are absolutely delicious. Crowley ends up making some kind of noise as he swallows and opens his eyes to see Azirpahale, staring at him, ravenous.

“‘S good,” Crowley tells him, after his heart rate slows down again. “Couldn’t eat more than one of those, but that’s delicious.” He glances down onto his plate. “Steak?”

“If you don’t mind.” Aziraphale glances down at it, then back up. “It looks incredible.”

Crowley cuts him a prime piece, making sure to drag it through the sauce and pick up a mushroom or two, and then leans in, reaching out himself. Aziraphale keeps his eyes on Crowley, rather than the fork, and Crowley only glances away to make sure he’s not going to stick his fork in Aziraphale’s goddamn jaw. Somehow the tension that had ebbed during the meal is ramping back up. Probably because watching Aziraphale eat is a fucking erotic experience, or it is if you’re Crowley and desperately attracted to a man who drinks wine like it’s foreplay.

“Oh, that was _scrumptious,_ ” Aziraphale says, with that same wiggle of his shoulders he makes when pleased, and Crowley would literally feed him this entire steak by hand if he only asked. What the _fuck._

Crowley moves to whiskey, something he can drink slowly and savor, since he’s the one driving. Aziraphale, charmingly, asks for their liquor list and orders some sort of brandy Crowley’s never heard of. The last bites of their meals - Crowley defeating most of the steak, half the mushrooms, and three bites of potatoes; Aziraphale’s plate wiped spotless with bread - are eaten in silence, and as they sit and sip their drinks, Crowley realizes it’s as comfortable as it is intriguing. There’s still that low simmering buzz between them, yeah, but there’s no awkward tension; it isn’t like Crowley’s bashing round his brain looking for something worthwhile to say. He still has the rich tender taste of his steak in his mouth, he has whiskey, and it’s actually nice to sit for a moment and enjoy it.

Is this what Aziraphale’s life is like, back in LA? Delicious top-notch food, served in lovely places with quality drinks? Going home to put words to the experience? Crowley’s not a writer. His review of the evening so far would read something like: _Had steak. Aziraphale hot. Those pants. Mushrooms good. Whiskey better. Want to touch the arse._ Nobody in the world would pay to read those kinds of reviews, except maybe Anathema, or Pepper, either of which would subscribe to that blog simply for the laughs.

“This was excellent,” Aziraphale says. “What do you think about dessert?”

Crowley’s not big on desserts, really, but he can tell Aziraphale is. “Help yourself, angel.”

Aziraphale’s mouth twists into a petty little moue that’s so perfect Crowley wants to press a finger to it. “Oh, but I’m entirely full. I’m not sure I could do a dessert justice.”

“Well,” Crowley finds himself drawling, “we could get something to go? Have a bit of a walk, maybe?”

“What a lovely idea.” Aziraphale leans back into his seat. “Is there somewhere nice around here?”

“I mean, well, maybe,” Crowley stammers a bit, because he’s realized where his mouth is going with this. “But maybe you’d like to come back to mine, wander the vineyard a bit?”

“Oh,” Aziraphale says in _that voice,_ the one that sounds like there’s nothing more pleasant in the entire world. “That would be splendid!”

———

They end up stopping off at Crowley’s house. He lets Aziraphale in with minimal trepidation - it’s his _house,_ yeah, but the first floor’s always neat to the point of being empty - and leaves him to poke around the living room while he dashes off to his own personal collection of bottles. It doesn’t look like the _Ecdyses_ tasting room is that busy, but he’s _not_ going to walk in there with Aziraphale all dressed up like they are. Not if he expects to leave with any dignity. The tasting room will be closing soon anyway; the sun’s setting, and oh god, this is going to be stupidly romantic. Shitfuck.

He drops two bottles off in the foyer, notes that Aziraphale is eyeballing his movie collection with the kind of smile he isn’t ready to process, and dashes up the stairs to grab a blanket. It’s a fucking picnic. Great.

Crowley hands Aziraphale the blanket to carry, along with the take-out bag holding their desserts, then swings into the kitchen to nick his bottle-opener. He shoves the two bottles under his arm, hooks the loop of the handle to his electric lantern around his wrist, and leads Aziraphale out the back door into the vineyard.

It isn’t like he doesn’t know where he’s going. Aziraphale exclaims over the blossoms as they go: they’re a lot smaller and more delicate than most people realize, Aziraphale included. Every time he touches one Crowley imagines he’s giving it some kind of little blessing: like that bit will remember that Aziraphale was there, and will grow better because of it. It’s goddamned romantic tripe. Why is he _like this._

He does swing them past the Chardonnay, where the very first examples of fruit set are. He points them out — the small green knobby bits, growing like tiny knots where the flowers were, little swellings that will eventually become grapes. Aziraphale strokes at them, so gently, amazed; Crowley watches those fingers, and his skin tingles.

“Want to show you something, angel,” he says finally, and Aziraphale glances back at him, a look of interest on his face. “Best vines in the whole place. C’mon.”

Crowley really, really hopes Anathema isn’t out here - or Adam - or anyone. He feels like it’s written on his face how intimate this is. He isn’t really sure what he’s thinking except that there’s no other way he can explain to Aziraphale just how serious he is about this entire thing; showing him the vines at the heart of the vineyard is the best he can do. Crowley can’t make words do what he wants them to. This is his only option.

(Because he wants this, now, Crowley knows; he wants to build something, and if it doesn’t work out that’s fine, but he wants to build a thing that might last beyond August or September. He wants to build a thing that has a chance. With Aziraphale. Crowley has never had anything like this before, and hell, but he wants to _try._ )

He walks them right through the boundary and into the old vines. There’s this crooked old tree sort-of towards the middle which is one of his most common places to stand and scream; Crowley walks them over there, sets down the bottles. Gestures for the blanket. Aziraphale looks around in the fading light, curious and intrigued, as Crowley settles both of them down onto it.

“This is,” he starts, but that’s far too raw and open. He swallows, trying to smooth it out. Baring his soul is one thing but actually _telling_ Aziraphale that he’s passing out his heart? That’s too much.

“Welcome to the old vines,” Crowley says instead, gesturing theatrically. “This is where the Apocalypse starts. Vines have been here for more than forty years.”

“Oh!” Aziraphale sounds surprised, and he spends a minute giving Crowley that kind of blazing _look_ he expects more from Adam or Anathema — and then glances around, clearly pleased and flattered. “Oh, my dear boy. Look at them.”

“Yup,” Crowley says, giving it four syllables and an extra pop at the _p._ “Most important spot in the vineyard, this is.”

“How lovely,” says Aziraphale, reaching for the bag with their desserts.

For a moment Crowley lets himself look. It _is_ lovely: the golden sunset catching in Aziraphale’s hair, turning that pale silver into a firework. The light on his face, the way Aziraphale’s focused entirely on the knot in the bag, his solid fingers not fumbling like Crowley’s might but slowly, deliberately tugging at it in certain spots. Crowley feels unraveling; unraveled. He turns his attention to the bottles that he has, carefully opening the Judith Reserve he’d picked first.

“Oh, shit,” Crowley says out loud. “I forgot to bring _glasses._ ” Oh, Jesus fuck, how fucking embarrassing. Can he be any more of a disaster. In the time it takes him to get to his house and then back out here, the moment will be over. Aziraphale will probably have eaten both desserts. Christ, he’s a dumbass.

He makes to stand up only for Aziraphale to reach over and press a palm into his knee. “No matter,” Aziraphale says, giving him that same weighted look. “We can share the bottle, you know.”

Crowley snorts. “We going to be classy tonight, angel?” He holds out the bottle gallantly, gesturing so that Aziraphale knows he is expected to take the first sip.

“Well,” Aziraphale says. He sits back on his heels, smiling, as he takes the bottle from Crowley’s hand and takes a long sip. Crowley watches his throat move and sighs a little to himself, thinking of the way it would taste. Once he’s done, Aziraphale extends his hand slightly to offer the bottle, and Crowley leans in, reaching for it.

Aziraphale ducks it back at the last moment, though, and moves in himself, laughing breathlessly. “What,” he says into Crowley’s mouth, “are you afraid of our lips touching?”

Crowley wants to groan, wants to tell Aziraphale that it’s a terrible joke, it’s only an excuse, but — Aziraphale’s leaned forward, catching Crowley’s chin with his hand, and they’re kissing across the blanket. It’s awful. It’s so _good._ Crowley feels like he’s been _waiting_ for this all night, for days; it’s like some small part of him doesn’t even make sense unless he’s kissing Aziraphale, touching him, some combination of both. Aziraphale’s lips taste like Judith, rich and jammy, full of sun, and Crowley licks at it, sucking at Aziraphale’s lower lip, groaning when Aziraphale’s tongue moves in with dominance.

They part, eventually, and Crowley reaches over to smoothly pull the bottle away from Aziraphale, taking his own drink. He watches Aziraphale as he swallows. “Go on, angel. Open up dessert.”

They’d ordered a creme brulee and some kind of double chocolate cake thing — Crowley’s not a bit dessert fan, but he’ll have a bite or two of each, and he’s mostly excited about watching Aziraphale eat them both with the wines he’s chosen. He watches as Aziraphale pulls both containers out of the bag; he sniffs deeply as he opens both of them, and the lift of his eyebrows is the same as he does when Crowley’s kissing him.

Crowley drinks some more. Aziraphale pulls the single plastic fork out of the bag and gestures with it. “Well, my dear,” he says. “Tell me about the vines.”

They pass the bottle back and forth, a little. Aziraphale cracks the surface of the creme brulee and his first bite generates some incredibly decadent sounds. The air is now more rose than gold; Aziraphale’s hair’s traced in pink, and his cheeks are bitten a darker red, and as Crowley passes him the bottle of Judith the flush spreads a bit, down Aziraphale’s throat.

“I’m not sure what to say,” Crowley says. Aziraphale reaches across with the fork, and Crowley takes a bite of dark-chocolate cake with a milk-chocolate filling and caramel drizzled on top. Again, he couldn’t eat more than three bites of this, but it’s delicious as hell.

“Alright,” says Aziraphale, and there’s something strange in his voice — something Crowley feels like a push, a prompt, an opening. “You don’t have to answer, my dear boy, and I’m not expecting anything dramatic. But I’ve wondered for weeks if you could explain - well - how did you come up with _Ecdyses_ as the name of this winery?”

Crowley laughs — a bit choked up, but nowhere near as bad as the other things on his tongue, the other admissions he was gonna make. “Right, angel. Don’t tell me you haven’t looked it up.”

Aziraphale scoffs. “Of course I have,” he says, sounded wounded. “I can parse the general term. That’s not what I asked at all.”

Crowley leans back on his elbows, craning his head backwards, looking up into the red-purple outlines of clouds in the sky. It’s a fair question. “Right,” he drawls, dragging it out, because he’s only explained this a few times. “The word is _ecdysis._ The act of shedding one’s old outer skin, for snakes and certain insects.”

“Yes,” says Aziraphale, drawing it out. “That, I saw.”

Crowley breathes in through his teeth, out through his nose. “The plural is _Ecdyses._ Many things shedding their outer skin. Seems to me it’s a reasonable term to describe wine-making. Crush the grapes, separate the skins, shed that old outer layer. Become something new.” He nabs the bottle, drinks deeply. “Fitting name for that point in my life.”

Aziraphale’s eyes and mouth are open as if he’s taking this all in and processing it as he breathes in the air. “No, yes, that makes sense,” he says finally, reaching for the bottle. Crowley hands it over. “Oh, good lord,” Aziraphale breathes, as he drinks. “Yes. All of these grapes, shedding skins, but on a schedule: just like a lizard. Or a snake.” Aziraphale takes another drink. “It isn’t just the name, is it? It’s the cycle.”

Crowley sighs, relaxing. Of course his angel gets it. “It has to be done,” he points out, accepting the fork from Aziraphale. He lifts a small decadent bite of that double chocolate thing to his mouth. It’s fantastic with Judith; he’s going to have to suggest this to Newt and Brian, see what they can do. “Every year’s different than the last. At some point you have to throw away that outer layer. Get all _raw._ ” He grins at Aziraphale, at that, but the other man’s just watching him and eating the crepe brûlée, looking fascinated.

“It’s a fantastic pun, Crowley.” Aziraphale’s smile goes fond as he reaches out for the bottle. “Wordplay. You’re far more clever than you let people see.”

Crowley gives a playful shrug at that, because it sits oddly around his heart somehow. He’s never doubted that he was clever - sometimes he feels like that’s _all_ he has going for him - but he also doesn’t necessarily think it’s something someone as intelligent as Aziraphale should think is remarkable. No, Crowley’s really just as clever as any other entrepreneur: he can make things work, and that’s really about it. Nothing special about him at all.

They drink and pick at the desserts in silence. The sun has formally begun to set at this point, and in a bit Crowley’s going to have to turn the lantern on, but for now he can just sit and drink and enjoy the noises Aziraphale makes as he alternates between desserts.

“That isn’t the only thing it means,” Crowley says finally. It’s almost a surprise. He’s been aware that his brain has been turning over the value of telling this story for - not hours, not days, probably since he found out this charming beautiful man was A.Z. Fell and he was interested in talking to Crowley - but it’s not always an easy one to tell. He’d meant to sit on it a while longer, honestly, but every sign he has seen so far says that Aziraphale is as deep into this as he himself is, and if they’re going to be serious about this Crowley wants to get it out of the way sooner rather than later.

Aziraphale seems to be able to hear it on his voice, because he sort-of shifts his shoulders so that he’s — aligned to Crowley, somehow, and Crowley doesn’t doubt for all of a second that all of Aziraphale’s attention is focused onto him. It’s heady. It’s terrifying.

“When I got this place,” Crowley begins, but that isn’t really where he wants to start. He has to start at the beginning for any of it to make sense. “So,” he adds, trying to be casual. “I used to be a real right bastard, you know.”

Aziraphale hangs on that for a second, and then gives him a teasing smile. “Used to be?”

And oh, _oh,_ that’s _perfect,_ that Aziraphale’s going to come into this evenly, the same way they always talk, willing to lighten up what Crowley knows are going to be some kind of heavy sentences. God. Fuck. Can Aziraphale be any more perfect? Crowley hates himself for it but he’s starting to have some kind of real hope, inside, that this is the kind of thing that might last longer than six months. Shit. Fuck. Damn.

“You think I’m bad now,” he tells Aziraphale. “I used to be one-hundred percent pure arsehole. I had this job, right,” and for a second Aziraphale was looking at him with some kind of pity - which he can’t stand - but then the look just became the same way Aziraphale looks at him always, as if Crowley’s some new kind of delicacy and Aziraphale can’t wait to try it.

“I was a business consultant,” he tells Aziraphale. “The kind that nobody ever wants to see at the office? The people that come in, do some analysis, and tell upper management how many people need to be fired and which ones should go? That kind.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale says. It’s quite obvious Crowley’s surprised him.

“I meant it when I said bastard,” Crowley says, quite gently.

“Oh, no, that isn’t—” Aziraphale shakes his head. “Not judgment at all. I just meant, how awful for you.”

And that’s a thought Crowley hasn’t had in a while. At the time he’d been _proud,_ in a way, because not many people would or could put up with a job that did that kind of thing, He’d thought it a _strength_ that he could come in and view things dispassionately, like some kind of machine looking at the numbers only. And in retrospect he’d been able to admit it to himself, occasionally, that it was that kind of work killing him and his soul (although by _occasionally_ Crowley means _the one time every six months he allowed himself to feel some kind of emotion),_ so, ngh, eh.

“It was work, angel,” he says instead. He’s sharing a lot with Aziraphale tonight but he isn’t sure _he’s_ ready to face another person that knows so much about his intimate thought processes. Vulnerability is for suckers. “And I was decent enough at it. It was a living.”

“Well,” Aziraphale huffs. “A living isn’t — oh, sorry, my dear. I won’t interrupt.”

Crowley, having heard enough about Aziraphale’s current situation with FTA to be - curious, at least - about the elaboration of that concept, doesn’t reply. “It was fine,” he said, “for a long while. Then some shit went down, and...”

Oh. He really doesn’t like telling this part.

Aziraphale seems to pick up on this as quickly as possible, because he picks the fork up and cuts off a piece of the chocolate thing, half-icing and half thick rich cake, and extends it towards Crowley. It’s such a simple gesture and yet something so sweet and supportive that Crowley considers proposing marriage as he eats it off the fork.

“Look, I got thrown under the bus,” he says, after careful chewing and swallowing. “And in that kind of industry I should have known what was coming, but I’d just been... hanging around with the wrong people, I guess. Didn’t meant to get in with a bad crowd. Just kind of... had nothing else going on, I guess. Sauntered my way into the wrong crowd.”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says, and Crowley has heard his name said in a number of ways, but never in this sort of all-encompassing compassionate way, and it’s making him lose it.

“Anyway. I fucked up. Fell. Got thrown under the bus. Scapegoat, whatever you want to call it, got blamed for something I’d only been involved in, like, peripherally, and then I was jobless and blacklisted in London with my only skill set in the kind of career most normal people think only demons do.”

Aziraphale just nods and makes a noise. He must be able to tell that this isn’t the easiest story to tell. Crowley likes that about him, desperately.

“So I’m bleeding though my savings because that kind of lifestyle in London is _expensive,_ and I’d been smart about money but not smart _enough,_ so I’m staring at my terrible trendy apartment and counting down the weeks until I’m homeless with no other options, freaking the fuck out, and then I get this...” Crowley swallows. “This phone call, asking me to come attend the deposition of somebody’s will out in the damned United States.”

“No,” Aziraphale whispers, obviously caught up in the drama of it. Crowley grins. If nothing else, it’s a damned good story.

‘I’m desperate,” Crowley explains. “And broke, but like, I figure if I’m gonna go, I’m gonna do it with style. So I book a flight out to San Francisco, right?, still thinking all of this is a joke.” He pauses. Picks up the bottle, takes a very long drink. “And I find out somebody left me a goddamned winery.”

Aziraphale’s gasp is actually honestly meant; Crowley’s equally flattered and embarrassed. “What on earth do you mean, _somebody_?”

Crowley shrugs, feeling his shoulders curve in on themselves. This is the weirdest part of the story and there aren’t too many people who actually know all of it. “I can tell you Her name, angel. Luisa Virginia Simon. Apparently some estranged relative of mine, I guess, although I didn’t have much family growing up and I still couldn’t tell you how we’re related. But there was my name, in Her will, gifting me with a winery that had gone untended for maybe ten years. Offering me a ...chance.”

Aziraphale says nothing. His eyes are wide as he watches.

Crowley shrugs, trying to downplay it. “Since I was out here, I came out to see the site. At the mo all I was thinking was what it would be worth for sale, if it would be enough for me to reestablish my career, get back in the game, but then—” He stops. Swallows. Gestures out at the land around him. Shrugs, again. “Some part of it spoke to me, I guess. Always liked growing things, even in that shit apartment. Moved out here six weeks later and haven’t looked back.”

In the silence that falls between them, Crowley reaches out and empties the bottle of Judith down his throat. There isn’t that much left, really, and he sets down the empty bottle to pick up the bottle of Song of Solomon Reserve, to open it.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says, very small and almost tentative. “Thank you for telling me this.”

Of course, Crowley thinks. _I want you to know. I wanted to tell you. It’s part of who I am, and if you’re taking me for who I am, it’s a story you should know._

“Yeah,” he says instead, drinking from Song of Solomon and flipping on the lantern. “Wanna head inside before the bugs come out, angel?”

———

Once they’re inside Crowley feels a lot less vulnerable, although he shouldn’t. It’s a bit odd that Aziraphale hasn’t, like — asked any questions? He isn’t curious? But it’s good, cause Crowley doesn’t want to talk about it. But it’s also weird. God, shit, what the _fuck._

He gets them settled in his living room. The first floor is a combination of Crowley’s own tastes and, well, comfortable for guests. His living room is set up in front of a giant flatscreen telly, with a dark grey couch and loveseat. He does have a couple throw pillows cause that’s what Brian always likes to give him for holidays and birthdays; they’re of course lime green and neon pink, but Crowley keeps them out because otherwise Brian wins. He watches Aziraphale’s eyes catch on them, and can’t help but giggle when Aziraphale glances over at him, obviously questioning.

“They’re gifts,” Crowley tells him, shrugging. “Brian keeps trying to bring them into the tasting room.”

“I don’t mean to be rude, dear.” Aziraphale settles himself down on the couch, rather closer to Crowley than expected, and Crowley smiles to himself. “It’s just so very obviously not your aesthetic.”

Crowley snorts, then. The living room is all shades of grey and silver, black lines and stark walls. The kitchen brings in a splash of red, and the dining room softens softly to the rich dark brown wood of his table, but that’s about it. “Every year he buys me new ones and I get to throw away the old ones. Can’t wait until Christmas, angel.”

Aziraphale smiles, and leans into Crowley. Oh, that’s interesting. Crowley tentatively moves his arm, and when Aziraphale sighs happily, he sets his arm around those broad shoulders and has another one of those moments where it feels like time has just stopped, because things are just too good to be real.

“Shall we put something on, angel?” Crowley keeps it casual. He isn’t really sure what Aziraphale’s plans are for the rest of the night. “Another glass of wine?”

“Hmmm.” Crowley can feel the hum against his side. Aziraphale’s a pleasant weight there, his head resting against Crowley’s shoulder, close enough that Crowley could tip his face in and smell Aziraphale’s curls. That’s probably creepy. Is it? He’s stuck his hands into Aziraphale’s pants in the middle of Madame Tracy’s rental kitchen, for fuck’s sake. Their boundaries are probably a bit different than usual.

Aziraphale sits up just a bit, tilting his head. “Are you looking to partake? I’m not against drinking alone, but it seems rude in front of company.”

Ah. Well. “Depends, angel. Need to be able to drive you home, at some point.”

“Oh,” says Aziraphale, somewhat archly. He turns in Crowley’s arms, fully this time, so that their eyes meet. “Do you, though?”

That ridiculous blaze, the thing that has been flickering between them the entire night, roars up in Crowley’s veins again. He’d - not forgotten about it, really - laid it aside out in the old vines, telling Aziraphale about the winery, and yet it’s right here, immediately back. Crowley suddenly can’t breathe. “And what are you suggesting, angel?” His voice, at least, comes out even.

Aziraphale ducks his head, gives Crowley this coy little look up through his lashes. He knows exactly what he’s doing, Crowley thinks. “Well, I’d hate to end the night too early, my dear.”

Aziraphale’s hand is on Crowley’s thigh, just sitting, pressing only a bit: solid, warm, and it has Crowley thinking about those fingers. His thumb is tracing a gentle line and it may as well be scorching through Crowley’s jeans.

God. Fuck. Crowley’s not really sure he’s ready for - a - for the - having - the incredible vulnerability that can come from - y‘know, making - well - and yet he isn’t really sure he would want to turn it down. Be able to turn it down. The thought of unwrapping Aziraphale, of being able to touch and taste the expanse of his body — well, fuck.

It’s been a hell of a night, really.

Aziraphale must see something on Crowley’s face because his hand reaches up, gently, to cup his cheek for a moment. “May I?” He asks, and Crowley realizes he’s still wearing his sunglasses, even though it has to be so late — and it’s Aziraphale. He’d kept them on, out in the vines, feeling a little too exposed to also reveal the oddities in his mismatched face.

“Sure,” says Crowley, feeling again like he’s choking.

He wants — too much. So many things. He wants to lean in and kiss Aziraphale; he wants to snuggle up on the couch and watch Chopped, listen to Aziraphale tell him all about the ingredients as they get a lazy sort of drunk. He wants to take Aziraphale upstairs and turn on all of the lights and peel him out of his clothes until Crowley’s mouth has touched every inch of him. He wants to run and hide in the basement, too, it isn’t like this is all some noble selfless giveaway. He wants too much, and he’s going to fuck it up by grabbing for things that aren’t on offer.

Crowley’s like a void, gaping to be filled. How the fuck is Aziraphale so _confident?_

By the time he shakes himself out of his thoughts, Aziraphale’s turned into him, his outer hand back on Crowley’s thigh and his closer hand at the nape of Crowley’s neck. “My dear, are you alright?”

“Perfect,” Crowley says, and immediately mentally kicks himself for saying it, but he lets himself lean in to kiss Aziraphale instead.

He’s absolutely a bit shaken and Aziraphale takes the lead, starting off with gentle, pressing kisses, deepening as they go, until Crowley’s mouth has been peeled open and he’s gasping into the moments Aziraphale pulls away to look at him, only to come back, smooth and deep and entirely overwhelming.

“What do you think, my dear Crowley?” Aziraphale’s smile is sly and fond. “The night doesn’t have to be over yet, does it?”

And no, oh, no it does _not._ Crowley shifts, reaching out to grab at Aziraphale’s broad hips. “Here,” he says, tugging, pulling, “come _here,_ ” and eventually Aziraphale gets the message, shifting up to straddle Crowley’s lap. “God, fuck, yes,” Crowley says, because he has two solid handfuls of Aziraphale’s thighs, and he’s already tipping his head back onto the couch so that Aziraphale can suck at the tender lines in his neck.

He can’t keep his hands still. Aziraphale’s just so - _hell,_ the weight of him, the way it feels like he’s holding Crowley down, like Crowley’s not allowed to go anywhere. They’ve never done this sitting, deliberately settling against each other, and it’s like an entire _world_ of sensations. Aziraphale’s hands in his hair, mouth on his neck, weight leaning him back into the couch at the moment: Crowley feels surrounded, overwhelmed, like a wave has just crashed over him and left him drenched.

But he’s not lost yet. His hands keep tracing Aziraphale’s curves: back to his arse, grabbing at it, then round to the sides of his hips, palms gliding up the tops of his thighs until his thumbs are tucked into the creases of Aziraphale’s groin and Aziraphale sits back and shifts his weight until he can grind down onto Crowley.

Oh, fuck. Shit. Crowley’s mouth stutters where it’s been tracing under Aziraphale’s jaw; he’s hard, but Aziraphale’s blazingly desperate, so hot that Crowley can feel it through all of their layers of clothing.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale murmurs into his neck. “Crowley.” His hand comes down to cup Crowley through his denims, his thumb tracing up and down with so much pressure Crowley almost wants to just rub off against it. “Oh, my dear.”

Crowley drags his hands up Aziraphale’s body, buries them in his curls, pulls Aziraphale in against him so tightly their lips are more mushed than kissing. He needs this, he needs to breathe through Aziraphale’s mouth. Fuck. He licks against Aziraphale’s teeth. He doesn’t know what he needs.

Aziraphale gently moves away only to carefully shift his weight, pulling away from Crowley, and Crowley can only watch, stupid as fuck, as Aziraphale sinks down to his knees, between Crowley’s legs, and looks up as if Crowley’s some glorious vintage Aziraphale can’t wait to drink down.

Aziraphale’s hands run up Crowley’s thighs, solid and warm and oh, _shit,_ this is absolutely something else. Crowley’s dreaming, he has to be either dreaming or drunk, except that he isn’t drunk and he doesn’t think even the best of dreams could be generating this much arousal.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale whispers, as his hands come together at the buckle of Crowley’s belt. “May I?”

It’s such a godsbefucked stupid question that Crowley doesn’t even know how to answer for almost a full minute: the answer’s written on his face, in his gaping eyes and his heavy, rushed breathing; in the way his hips are craning towards Aziraphale even in this position, the way his toes are already curling. “Shit, Jesus — _someone,_ ” Crowley stammers. “Yes. _Yes,_ angel. God. Fuck.”

“That’s more blasphemy than I’ve heard in days,” Aziraphale says conversationally, as Crowley’s belt falls to those calm fingers, followed by the button on his jeans, then the long slow zip of his flies. “I just can’t — I want to taste you, my dear.” The loosened trousers are tugged down. Crowley realizes he’s still in his nice suit - Aziraphale’s still in his nice suit; they went out into the vines in their dress clothes - he can’t even give a single fuck. This has to be why She invented discreet dry-cleaning. Fuck, Aziraphale’s working the waistband of his wine-red silk boxer briefs down as well, and every time either fabric or fingers brushes against Crowley’s cock his breath stutters: he isn’t going to be able to take this. Fuck, he told Aziraphale about his — about Before, and about how he got here, and about _Ecdyses,_ and here’s Aziraphale, still wanting to draw Crowley in: still wanting Crowley. What the actual _fuck_ is happening?

Aziraphale’s fingers gently wrap around the base of Crowley’s cock and his hips jerk with a life of their own; Aziraphale’s breath catches and Crowley makes the kind of whining noise he hopes only dogs and dolphins can understand. “I’ve wondered,” Aziraphale says then, so casually it’s like they’re talking about grapes; “I’ve wondered about your taste probably since the day I first saw you,” he continues, and then licks a hot raw stripe up the base of Crowley’s dick.

The noise Crowley makes is obscene; absurd - it feels fucking divine, right, like the slick and the heat are reading Crowley’s wants out of his own mind - but it’s equally the look of Aziraphale, on his knees, tongue now licking at the head of Crowley’s dick like it’s a goddamned souffle and shit, the thought of being dessert has never been so attractive until right now.

“Angel,” Crowley manages to breathe out, and the look on Aziraphale’s face goes positively decadent as he sucks the entire tip of Crowley’s cock into his mouth.

It fucking _hits_ like _lightning_ and Crowley’s hips jerk despite his own desire to be polite, to be somewhat normal — but who can be normal when it’s A.Z.Fell’s delicacy of a mouth surrounding the head of his cock, those lips working at the end of his shaft, tonguing at the slit, such tight suction Crowley’s tempted to jerk into maybe all of three times and then come down that decadent throat.

But no; Aziraphale pops his mouth off and it’s the most obscene of sounds. He runs his tongue from base to tip, repeating the gesture from before, then lathes these thick licks upwards and downwards, on all sides, an assault of this thick pressure while his steady hand is still holding the base desperately in place. Crowley isn’t sure why he’s surprised that Aziraphale is an absolute fiend at cocksucking: he’s a man whose greatest talent lies in his taste buds, so of course his mouth is confident and transcendent and an absolute goddamned wonder of the modern fucking culinary world. Aziraphale is mouthing at his cock like it’s the fucking main course and Crowley has never, ever been so turned on by the thought of comparing himself to food.

Aziraphale gives him another wrenching suck at the tip of his dick, the kind that makes Crowley go temporarily blind, and then tells him: “My dear, darling boy. Sweet darling. All I want to do is swallow you down.”

Crowley makes a noise-word that has about seven syllables and no consonants whatsoever. Luckily, Aziraphale takes it as a yes, because he wraps his swollen lips around Crowley’s cock and starts a very slow descent down his entire length - sucking the entire way, cheeks hollowed, until all of that tight tension is resting right against the feeling of Aziraphale’s thick fingers. Crowley realizes, in a shock that shouldn’t at all be shocking, that he really isn’t going to last very long.

And then Aziraphale starts to move and it’s more than true: his mouth and hand move together, so Crowley can’t even tell what the fuck is happening to his cock, it just feels like this long tunnel of bright hot suction and pressure, in the best possible way; it feels like every goddamned vein in his dick has to be standing out, swollen, every single nerve cluster alight with wet heat and the sense of Aziraphale. The pace quickens, and Crowley’s hips are moving to their own terrible jerky beat - not much of a dancer, he is, no - and hand and mouth alike are pumping at him, working at him with an urgency that’s less frantic and more just _undeniable,_ as if Crowley would ever try to deny anything this good.

He garbles at his first three tries and then manages to gasp out, “Aziraphale, I’m close,” because it feels like he’s been close for the last _decade_ , seriously, this kind of buildup must have taken an entire ten to fifteen years to mature, all when Crowley wasn’t looking. It’s building hot and wanting inside him, waiting to burst out of the ground, pushing and pressing at his stupid fucking bones and angles, and Crowley wants, he _needs_ —

Aziraphale pulls off only long enough to tell him, “I’m ready,” in this absolutely no-nonsense tone like Crowley’s cock is a vintage he’s been waiting for, as if this is something served on a silver platter, as if he actually really _wants_ Crowley against his tongue and in his throat and oh, shit, fuck, this is —

The thoughts all come to boil like a pot of water and Crowley crests like a wave: all silver-sparkling, too bright to look at, and his hands grip his own fucking couch as he feels himself pulsing into Aziraphale’s mouth, wave after wave, coming like it’s the only desperate goddamned thing his body knows what to do. It might be. Crowley feels drained, emptied, shattered, but Aziraphale’s mouth is still gently working him, lips and tongue - fuck, is he what, collecting every last drop - Crowley’s head falls backwards onto the couch cushion and his eyes close. He’s breathing, he realizes, like he just ran a motherfucking marathon.

Eventually the volcanoes stop, the earth cools, the dinosaurs emerge — Crowley’s senses come back to him in a roaring rush and he opens his eyes. Aziraphale’s still there between his legs, looking so smugly satisfied and yet still desperately aroused that something tugs in Crowley’s chest, something he has literally never felt before: the urge to please, to give, to yield until someone else can feel a fracture of what he’s feeling right now. His limbs all feel like overcooked spaghetti. He might never stop making food metaphors now. He feels like his dick might have just become the ultimate metaphor for a meal and he isn’t quite sure how to deal with that.

Crowley lets his vision focus. Aziraphale’s eyes are so dilated they look black. It’s a goddamned good look on him and Crowley can barely help himself as he surges forward, off the couch, tipping Aziraphale backwards - gently - onto his rug, absolutely lunging at Aziraphale’s mouth until he can suck at Aziraphale’s tongue, his own then spelling letters against it, all needy and wanting. He braces himself above Aziraphale on his elbows, looking down intensely into a gaze that’s already going a bit crooked, and murmurs: “Angel. Can it be my turn now?”

Aziraphale’s eyes widen even as they grow even darker; it’s a strange effect, one that pools right in Crowley’s nervous system until he’s filled with a jittery energy that has to go somewhere. He licks into Aziraphale again - that salty taste must be his own - before he continues down, licking and biting into the creamy skin across that collarbone, the thick of it over Aziraphale’s breast. Crowley doesn’t even want to take the time to undo the shirt so instead he bites and sucks at Aziraphale’s broad belly through the fabric. Something about the texture of it drives him wild, and Aziraphale’s keening as he continues the onslaught, nimble fingers dipping below to start working at the fastenings of those pants. God, those thick thunder thighs looked a delicacy in these trousers, Crowley’s almost sad to be removing them except that he isn’t fucking sad at all, he just _wants._

Aziraphale’s cock is so hot and so hard it springs free the moment Crowley tugs the fabric away, and Aziraphale _moans_ above him, the same noise he makes after the perfect sip of something Crowley’s made, and Crowley’s so undone he has no fucking finesse and he doesn’t want to wait anyway so he just licks at Aziraphale’s cock and then slides his mouth down as far as he can reach because he’s going to stuff the entire thing into his mouth even if it _chokes_ him.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale cries, hips jerking roughly, and yeah, there it is, hitting the back of his throat and that awful feeling has never felt so _good_ before. Fuck. “I have to warn you,” Aziraphale manages to pant out. “If you’re going to do that, this won’t take very long at all.”

Crowley hums around Aziraphale’s cock, and then sloppily glides his way up to the point where he’s looking up at Aziraphale, barely kissing the tip. Aziraphale is _stunning:_ breathtaking, spread on the floor like this, cheeks flushed and eyes gone dark and he’s struggling to sit up on one elbow, the other coming to gently wipe a strand of Crowley’s hair off of his cheek. The hand rests in Crowley’s hair and Crowley reaches up to pull it deeper, smashing Aziraphale’s palm against his head before he dips back down, his tongue working side to side as he swallows the entire length again.

It feels _decadent,_ in some odd way Crowley isn’t at all used to feeling. To have Aziraphale in _his_ house, on his carpet, in his vines; to have his mouth full, Aziraphale’s cock thick and leaking: to have his heart vibrating at the same frequency as he swallows tentatively around the tip again. To be allowed to do this — to bring Aziraphale pleasure, to be as pleasing to this man as vintage and delicacy, to be allowed to touch and feel and taste. It’s fucking _wild._

It isn’t long at all before Aziraphale’s grip in his hair tightens, and he makes a warning noise, which Crowley ignores to hollow his cheeks and attempt to draw every last drop of Aziraphale’s release down his throat by force. It’s as shocking as his own orgasm, the sounds Aziraphale’s making — deep, thick sounds, raw with pleasure, a shuddering gasp. Crowley pulls off once he hears Aziraphale’s head _thunk_ back onto the floor, and he’s breathing as hard as Aziraphale is.

“C’mon, angel,” Crowley murmurs, reaching out with both hands.

———

They end up back on the couch, with Crowley tucked into the corner and Aziraphale leaning against him; Crowley has one arm wrapped around Aziraphale’s shoulders, tugging him in, and the other hand is tucked into Aziraphale’s. Holding hands on the couch. God, they’re a stupid fucking romantic cliche.

The worries are about to kick back in. Aziraphale seems like he’s dozing; his breaths will slow, his body relax, until he jerks himself awake with the slightest of movements — but Crowley can feel it, pressed as close as they are. He hasn’t said a thing, though, and neither has Crowley.

Should he offer his bed? Surely if they’ve shared this, sharing a bed will be second nature — but Aziraphale has been so bold; wouldn’t he ask? Or does Crowley need to offer because it’s his house? Or should he offer to drive Aziraphale home? At this hour? Crowley has _no fucking idea_ what to do now.

Instead he leans his head, a bit, until his cheek is resting against Aziraphale’s hair. Of course his bloody shampoo smells like verbena and lemon. Aziraphale murmurs something - awake or asleep; Crowley can’t tell - and tucks himself in further under Crowley’s chin.

This might be the most frightening bit of all: the comfort of being so _close._ Crowley shouldn’t be allowing this to happen. Then again, he shouldn’t have allowed any of this to happen, there’s no guarantee it’ll end well at all — but Aziraphale feels so good here, all of Crowley’s nerves floating happily on a sea of contact and endorphins.

(In the end, they both doze on the couch for a while, and then Crowley drives Aziraphale home at the empty and completely irresponsible hour of 3AM. The car is silent, the night around them is silent, and they hold hands. Crowley kisses Aziraphale’s knuckles as he gets out of the car. Driving home there’s a prickling at the back of his neck, like he’s about to see a ghost.)

(By the time Crowley gets home, it’s late enough and unusual enough and he’s thrown enough to wonder if it all really did happen.)

———

The Chardonnay is flourishing this year. The fruit’s setting in great big bunches, and they must have done an excellent job tempering, because to Crowley’s eye it looks like the leaves are all at the perfect density to protect from rain and too much sun while still allowing windflow and fog. 2019’s gonna be a great year for the Magnificat, fuck, he can already tell.

The Pinot‘s another early bloomer and it isn’t doing as vigorously as the Chard, but it still looks good. It’s maybe halfway through fruit set and Crowley might take some time trimming a bit of density out of Lydia’s fields; the blossoms are sparser, and while that means the grapes will grow big, they’ll need more sun to do so. As usual, he cannot fucking tell what the Petite Sirah is doing. His other whites are lagging behind the Chard, but they’re looking a lot like his notes from last year describe, so he isn’t concerned.

It’s his Zinfandel - and not just the old vines; all of them, Adam and Eve _and_ Cup of Demons alongside the Apocalypse - that has him worried. They’re lagging far behind the other vines; not just the Chard, which seems to just be happily gurgling along in a growth spurt, but the others too.

Crowley keeps books every year where he painstakingly keeps notes for each field of the dates and shapes each step of the process takes. He draws the budburst and the new growth, he sketches out the tempering, and he always notes sizes and flowers per bunch and all kinds of things when flowering turns to fruit set. And the Zinfandels are on par with last year — which makes _no sense at all_ seeing that every other vine in the place is at least a full two weeks ahead. They should, in fact, move together.

He’s known for his Zinfandel. Those old vines are the heart of this place. It sits there, uneasily, at the bottom of Crowley’s heart.

The thing is, Crowley can still feel all of his anxiety about this - relationship - he’s developing with Aziraphale, but it’s — muted: it’s behind this wall that’s built out of calm joy from their date, the pleasure he feels when Aziraphale smiles at him, the knowledge that they both want the same thing from this. The concern over the vineyard has no such buffer and it’s crackling through Crowley’s already-fragile heart as if it’s a sign. Some kind of metaphor: as goes the vineyard, so goes his life? Ha! Isn’t that the truth. If his Zin fails, he’s doomed, he’ll need to take another loan somewhere to save this place and his own ass.

All he can do is check (and check he does, rather relentlessly and far more regularly than he needs) as he waits, waits for those blossoms to fill up and ripen and drop, waits for those tiny green nodules that will eventually become his grapes. Every second the vines are in this state of flux makes them vulnerable to grape shatter, and Crowley can’t afford that. Financially or emotionally, really.

At least there’s one thing going right, because otherwise Crowley might be going full feral, screaming at the vines under a new moon like a witch from the old days.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well! hang in there. chapter 12 brings in some new points of view, in more ways than one. I've been dropping some tricky hints; i'm hoping they take and root and grow.
> 
> I LOVE YOU ALL. FEED ME YOUR THOUGHTS.


	12. A Tasting Flight: Dark Reds to Savor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anathema and Newt share their thoughts, Warlock and Adam are getting impatient, and Aziraphale and Crowley awkwardly orbit each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, well, well. There have been undercurrents running through this entire fic; I hope you're thinking about them.
> 
> You've had the most lovely responses to these chapters. I adore every comment. Bless.

Anathema Device is descended from the last true witch in England. Or at least, that’s the story her mother tells at parties.

It’s mostly a joke. Like the way the extended Device-Nutter family always makes sure there’s an Agnes in every generation. (Anathema, despite the problems she had in grade school with her own name, has always been glad she didn’t have to be the Agnes.) The way they joke at each other about things that somehow always end up coming true. Her family’s odd, and mostly in Malibu, which explains why Anathema has made her home here in the Russian River Valley.

What all of this has done to Anathema is make her _perceptive_ in a way most people aren’t. She notices things about people that they don’t even notice, sometimes. And she has this intuition that sometimes tells her incredibly odd things that end up coming true.

She knew when her cousin and his wife were trying for a baby before they did. She knew when they were pregnant with their second before they did. She knew her mother would need surgery, she knew she and Newt would end up together, and Anathema got hit with it the second Anthony Crowley and Aziraphale Fell met over the Magnificat.

Which has made this entire thing _hilarious._

She’s probably Crowley’s closest friend (although with Aziraphale in the picture, now, she might have competition) and she’s well aware enough of the lines of him, the way his emotions affect the aura he puts off, and she felt something click into place that day. And Anathema’s just been working the tasting room and watching Crowley pine, dramatically and oh so obviously.

“Look,” she murmurs to Newt, nudging him with her elbow.

Aziraphale has just arrived, and Crowley’s aura is spitting out sunshine so bright anyone could see it. Aziraphale’s is a more hesitant glow, but it relaxes and spreads as Crowley gets him settled in at the corner table in the back they tend to use when Aziraphale’s here to write. Anathema narrows her eyes and decides that Aziraphale’s in the mood for Cup of Demons: their newer, sharper Zinfandel.

She has the glass ready when Crowley walks up to the bar. He looks at the bottle in her hand and then just rudely gives her two fingers as he walks away. Anathema laughs.

“Still don’t know how you do that,” Newt murmurs, squeezing her arm as he heads back into the kitchen.

This wasn’t her dream career growing up, but she’d fallen into it on a wild vacation one summer, and now Anathema is really starting to feel like a part of the Valley. Like she and Newt could put down roots here, in the little banged-up cottage they keep just south of Santa Rosa.

She wonders whether Crowley will ever let them.

It’s so easy for her to see that Crowley’s been burned before, badly, just by the way he treats them. He’s a wonderful boss, even though he’s a goddamn asshole who wouldn’t know tact if it blossomed on a vine — he makes sure they have reasonable salaries, allows them time off, works with the credit union to get them insurance. He takes care of them when they need it. But there’s no talk of their future, ever.

Anathema and Newt practically run the tasting room on their own, and Crowley has never once said anything about the long-term. He reviews their employment every year, making cost of living raises as the market suggests, and that’s that. Her life and Newt’s, stringing out, determined on an annual cycle.

As someone whose family jokes that they can read the future, well, Anathema fucking _hates it._

And yet she gets it; Anathema knows Crowley. She can see when his edges start to grind against each other, when he needs to go out into his vines and yell. She can tell when the weight of the business is heavy on his shoulders. She doesn’t know all of the dark spots that he carries but she can tell when something brushes up against one of them too stringently, leaving marks and scrapes and scars.

Crowley’s trained himself out of trusting people. And thus, she and Newt stay here: guaranteed employment, but only as long as Crowley can maintain the edge of the things that keep them here.

But Anathema sees him, trusting Aziraphale, piece by piece. Tonight there’s something soft about him, almost vulnerable, and she wonders which piece (pieces?) of his past he’s offered up to Aziraphale. Watching them together makes it clear that Aziraphale could ask for anything and Crowley would find a way to serve it in a glass. It’s dangerous, she thinks, but it’s also somewhat lovely.

Maybe this is it, then? The year Crowley might actually, permanently, gloriously give them the signs they need and let them put some roots down?

Anathema rolls her eyes at herself. Intuition isn’t magic. Perception isn’t reality. And Crowley is Crowley.

———

> To: A. Z. Fell 
> 
> From: Gabriel Archer 
> 
> CC: Michael Rosa , “Warlock Dowling” 
> 
> Subject: Re: Re: Re: First SECOND Chapter
> 
> Like I said, Aziraphale, this continues to be great work! I love the way you’ve worked in so many mentions of the local places — it’ll be incredibly easy for us to get some sponsors that way! Chapter 2 is exactly what I want to see from you! I knew you’d get it, you old dog!
> 
> Plus your blogs have been doing very well. I’m sure Warlock’s told you, but all of the information you’re getting from your winery contact has been bringing in solid numbers every week. You haven’t made some kind of under the table deal with this guy, have you? Ha Ha. I’m joking! Of course you haven’t. Just keep it legit! Ha Ha Ha.
> 
> I wish I could take an entire week off and join you up there! Send Us Ch 3 as soon as You have it, I’m living vicariously through you, Aziraphale!!!
> 
> Have fun,
> 
> Sincerely,
> 
> _**Gabriel A. Archer** _
> 
> Director, Content Management
> 
> Food & Travel Adventures _(FTA, INC, All Rights Reserved)_

———

As it turns out, Newt Pulsifer is the kind of person who falls in love with _everything._

He wouldn’t call himself a romantic, really. In fact, he’s quite the opposite; he fumbles all kinds of grand gestures, he sucks at stammering his way through his emotions, and anyone who has ever actually agreed to date him has been so far out of his league it isn’t even funny. He’s never successfully wooed a woman, either; they just seem to come up, pick him, and declare them his.

Or, at least, that’s what Anathema did. But then again, Newton Pulsifer is head-over-heels in love with Anathema.

He loves their cottage. It’s a bit beat-up and run-down and whatever sort of terms you might use to describe it, but it’s theirs. They’ve painted the walls all kinds of bold colors, and hung up Anathema’s occult artwork and Newt’s old lithograph prints, and every night they crawl into a bed that’s _theirs_. He loves the sheets, the bed frame, the feeling of Anathema gently snoring next to him.

He loves their work, too. He _loves Ecdyses._ He doesn’t know anything about the vines or the wine other than what they taste in his average-person mouth but he _loves_ the way that they taste. He loves knowing that they came from the ground out back, that Crowley’s weird muttering and Anathema’s witchy workings keep this product coming out of the ground and onto their tasting bar. And he loves that he doesn’t need to know anything about that part: all he needs to do is talk about their wines, and the flavors, and a bit about how each one differentiates from the others.

Newt is absolutely in love with his kitchen. Well, the kitchen he shares with Brian. (Newt loves Brian too: Brian is awful and hilarious and makes terrible baking puns and absolutely lovely quiche and seems like he’s the heart of the Them.) He loves the fact that he can work with these solid ingredients - flour, yeast, sugar - and combine them in so many ways. He comes in once a week to make giant batches of dough for cinnamon rolls and coffee cake. Newt’s _known_ for it.

And who would have thought clumsy Newt with the big glasses and the two left feet and the way he always breaks computers and drops calculators — who would have ever thought Newt Pulsifer would be _known_ for anything?

So yeah, Newt’s basically in love with everything. He doesn’t know how to express it with words or language of many kind, so he does what he does best: supports. Makes bread. Shares wine. Loves Anathema. And lasts.

———

Warlock Dowling is not fucking _dumb._

He knows something is up with Az. Something more than the fact that he and Crowley are — dating, probably? Together? Doing a Thing. He isn’t sure what word to use but the proper term doesn’t have to be accurate for Warlock to know that it’s going on. He has eyeballs. Az has basically been undressing Crowley with his eyes for a solid month now. He’s just happy he doesn’t have to see that part anymore.

But it isn’t just that. Because it looks like that’s going _well,_ from the increasing number of terribly disgusting looks he’s seen Crowley give Az over the last week or two. And Az smiles back, sure, but then when Crowley turns away...

Plus this book is a piece of unadulterated monkey crap. Okay, that’s unfair; even Az’s worst writing is still great. But this is the kind of book _Warlock_ could write. It’s blatantly commercial, overly cheery, and so directed at a target audience that he kind of wants to puke.

The earlier hints of Az’s novel had been _breathtaking._ Perfect? Well, no. Warlock’s been researching the publishing industry since they got this assignment and he knows the kind of things they’ll need to successfully straddle that line between cookbook and memoir. But those early bits had been something unique. The same kind of thing Warlock had seen in Az’s writing when he signed on, however fucking many years ago.

And it isn’t that’s he’s distracted by the Crowley thing. Warlock has seen Az in a small smattering sample of relationships before, and they often result in enormous creative boosts: sides of poetry, of reminiscing, of complex meals spelled out in the blog with a romantic wine pairing for two. It isn’t that.

Something’s up. And Warlock knows Az doesn’t like to talk about this kind of thing, but he’s going to have to, soon. Aziraphale has some important career decisions to make. If he - if he locks himself into - into this commercialized bullshit book he’s sending Gabriel, he’s never going to get out of this niche. And there’s nothing wrong with that but Warlock wants it to be a conscious _choice_ for Az, rather than something that just _happens._

Warlock wants only the best for Az. He really does. But he’s getting really, really tired of the way Aziraphale just lets things happen as if he’s afraid to even think about what _he_ wants.

Luckily for Warlock, he doesn’t have to worry about it tonight. He’s over at Adam’s, and Pepper’s tucked up against him, and Adam’s bringing the rest of the bottle of whiskey and the cheese plate to bed so that they can watch _The Witcher_ until they all fall asleep.

———

Anathema loves and hates Newt’s car. It’s this beat-up little junker Honda Fit - bright orange, of course - and he calls it Bill Corvega for some absurd reason. From what Newt tells her, it’s twenty times better than whatever thing he had before he met her, some bright blue monstrosity he called Dick Turpin. (Anathema absolutely resists asking about the names, or googling them. She’s afraid she might have to dump Newt purely from whatever pun he’s making.)

But Newt loves his cars. He buys them used and banged-up, sure, but he takes care of them in his own way and gets the maintenance he needs. He talks to them when he’s driving. Anathema _loathes_ driving - the sheer fucking panache of it - so it works out well that Newt loves to bob happily behind the wheel.

They’re on the way home from work, a half-empty bottle of Magnificat and a couple croissants tucked into the bag at Anathema’s feet, with the exhausted buzz that comes from very low-grade drinking for eleven hours on their feet. It’s actually a good kind of buzz: the humming satisfaction of a good day seeping down into her bones.

“What on earth was wrong with Crowley today?” Newt asks, idly. His fingers are drumming a pattern on the worn leather steering wheel and Anathema loves him, this beautiful idiot.

“What do you think?” She asks him, grinning a bit and knowing he’ll hear it in her voice. “His boyfriend stopped in.”

“Are they,” Newt starts, with that wonderful realization that he’s missed something obvious in his voice, “Oh.”

“I mean, I don’t _know,_ I don’t have confirmation, but. You know. I _know,_ ” Anathema tells him.

Newt giggles a bit. “Got one of your p-word feelings again?”

They call it the p-word because that makes it funnier: Anathema’s intuition, her _prophetic sense._ These little realizations she has all the time as her senses piece two and two and three together in her backbrain and occasionally slam her with a feeling that she knows what’s going to happen. They keep it as a joke between them because Anathema doesn’t really believe it’s anything other than a quick mind at work, really, the whole witch thing is a joke all her aunts like to prank strangers with. It’s silly.

“I do,” she tells him, then adds slowly, “and I’m not sure it’s a good one.”

“Oooh.” Newt’s noise is cutely playful, friendly mocking and interest at the same time. “Do tell.”

“They’re together,” Anathema says, “or they’re going to be, but it’s — big, somehow. It’s either going to be really great or really horrible and I don’t know which.”

“Nat,” Newt says, “that’s just _life.”_

And oh, fuck, she loves him. Anathema bursts out laughing. She knows she tends towards the dramatic, it’s just who she is, and lovely simple Newt always manages to frame everything just a bit differently to stop all of her worries.

“Well, that’s all the p-word is, isn’t it?” She manages to say through her own laughter. “Just picking up on life, right?”

“Anathema Device,” says Newt, “you’re a terrible witch, and I love you.”

Anathema reaches over to squeeze his hand. After a moment, she says, contemplatively, “Anthony J. Crowley in love. Actual love. Can you imagine?”

Newt snorts. “That’s Armageddon right there. The gosh damned end of the world.”

———

Crowley is _buzzing._

Not in the alcoholic sense. He’s fucking just riding an anxiety high and he isn’t even sure whether it’s a good one or a bad one? It’s just kind of like — fuck. His whole body is in high-alert, fight or flight, except that he doesn’t feel threatened, he feels _threatening._

Hastur and Ligur had tried to sneak onto the property, earlier, probably to loot around in one of the _Ecdyses_ buildings and plant something suspicious. But Adam and Warlock had been - well, Crowley isn’t sure _what_ Adam and Warlock were doing out there, because Adam had said “taking pictures for the blog” but with the kind of smile that meant something suspicious had been going on - anyway, they’d been in the area and Crowley had been able to march both of the inspectors off of his property with those two strapping young men as backup (okay, he’s being dramatic, whatever). It had been _distinctly_ satisfying to catch them at their game, and although those two _demons_ hadn’t waited around, Crowley had filed a report with the local police department against them, with both Warlock and Adam calmly backing him up.

Of course, Crowley then took four deep breaths and tore the building apart, trying to figure out what on earth they could have left in there to incriminate him. He finds nothing, but that doesn’t mean there’s nothing there.

So now he’s on edge, half-victorious and half-a-wreck. Anathema keeps shooting him these _looks_ and Newt keeps offering him some water and for whatever reason Adam and Warlock and Wensleydale are all sitting in Adam’s office with the door closed. God, they’re probably just playing a naughty phone game, calm the _fuck_ down Crowley.

He thinks about calling Aziraphale. Asking him to come down. But he can’t be _doing_ that with Aziraphale. He’s already pressed his luck, pushed too hard, Aziraphale hasn’t said but Crowley knows.

He had opened up, out there in those old vines, and scooped out some of the tangled mess that made him what he is. He’d held it up, described it, presented it. And Aziraphale had been kind, and reverent, and had listened with all of the grace Crowley would ever have wanted.

Then they’d gone inside, enjoyed mutual blowjobs, and Aziraphale’s been absolutely the same.

Look. Crowley’s an absolute dumb fuckup, sure, so maybe his perceptions are off. He’d wanted to start building something - a bridge between them - something made of their understanding of each other. And maybe it’s a good thing that Aziraphale’s still treating him the same way he did before. Nothing changing? Maybe that’s great. Shit, he should probably ask Anathema; this is getting ridiculous.

But Crowley’s well aware that there was no... return. No mutual offer of that sort of knotted-up mess that makes a person what they are; no reveal, no vulnerability. Crowley’s starting to think that for all Aziraphale has been _lovely_ with him, the man maaayayyyyyyybe lives in some sort of denial.

Because Crowley wants to talk about this. About what the fuck they’re doing, about what the fuck they _are,_ about what’s going to happen at the end of the summer. And Crowley **n e v e r** wants to talk about anything. Ever. So if _he’s_ here, the world is probably ending, Apocalypse 2019 the final vintage of _Ecdyses_ that’ll ever see glass.

Christ, if the absolute emotional disaster that lives inside Crowley wants to _talk,_ what the hell is Aziraphale’s excuse? He’s been so _confident:_ confidently taking Crowley _apart_ in all kinds of great ways, but Aziraphale’s seemed so stable, so sure. Fuck, Crowley loves the look on him, but he hates when it vanishes.

He’s a mess. Who’s surprised?

———

_Sometimes we come to a point in time where everything around us is good, but good in a way we can’t quite — well._

_Each one of us has our limitations. We each have the energy to do so many things per day. To write this many words, to complete that many chores. The bandwidth to savor that many bright moments; the resilience to weather this many stormclouds. And in my experience this can occur even in the best of times: we get overwhelmed, overstimulated: we overdraw at the memory bank, overcharge the credit card; we burn ourselves on the hot stove, run out of spoons._

_That’s here; that’s now._

_There’s so much going on and it’s just going too quickly to parse. Crowley’s lovely, as usual, but he’s here feeding me a heaping serving of his vulnerability, and I wasn’t expecting — no, absolutely not._

_The book is going so very well and Gabriel is finally, finally pleased with something I’m putting out! Not that he’s ever expressed displeasure, sure, but he’s always implied there was a level I hadn’t yet reached that he wanted me to attain. And I really feel like I have! Even though I’m putting out far more exclamation points and talking like an excitable young man on steroids! I — Oh, fuck._

_Nothing is fitting anymore. I came here to write and instead I’ve moved backwards, putting out pages of bullshit in an attempt to please a boss that really doesn’t understand me at all. I came here to learn and instead I’ve fallen in - into - I’m here with these feelings for Crowley, but I’m not sure I’m there, I’m ready, I’m in. I’m not sure I realized what he was asking, those few times he’s asked._

_I’ve been focusing on the physical because it’s so much easier to let it all go. Crowley is delectable and he tempts me away from all of my rational thought. It’s so easy to let the two of us speak with mouths and hands and skin, rather than these crucial words I don’t want to look at. The physical is glorious, it’s beautiful, and it’s safe. It doesn’t need to be spoken._

_I don’t want to look at any of this. I take it, I spit it into these pages, and then I hide them. Open another document, begin another chapter. It either becomes Gabriel’s bullshit, or it becomes another traitor, stuffed into this hidden folder, this prison. I do not have time for this, I am attempting to change my entire career and my life and I was not expecting a certain set of old vines to worm their way into my heart._

_I don’t know what I’m saying or writing anymore. I feel at home here more than I’ve ever felt in Los Angeles, but this isn’t my home; I feel lost every time I think of the end of this summer, but it’s only returning to where I’m tethered. There’s too much in the air, too many things I do not want to be thinking. I am in a great place! I have a lovely job that allows me experiences like this, and I should be satisfied with the things they give me._

_I think you may go too fast for me, Crowley._

———

Finally - finally - Anathema gets Crowley to sit down with them. With herself, and Newt. Adam’s there too, but Anathema’s fond of Adam. He’s like the little brother she doesn’t have. (Anathema is an only child, but she has enough cousins of various ages to know she would not have liked having a younger sibling. Anathema’s as aware of her own faults as she is everyone else’s; she would not have liked sharing the attention.)

It’s closing, on a day Aziraphale hasn’t been in. They’re all on the same wavelength, here, hovering around Crowley at angles to make sure he doesn’t escape. Crowley’s suspicious but he hasn’t exactly caught on yet. His gaze keeps flicking towards the door as if he’s expecting someone (someone! Ha) to walk in. Or hoping, maybe.

Eventually the three of them have pinned Crowley at the center of the great V that forms the _Ecdyses_ tasting bar, where the dailies sit. Crowley glances at them, one by one, and then lets out a massive groan and shoves his sunglasses up into his hair to rub his hands over his face.

“Fuck right off,” Crowley says.

“Nope,” says Newt, cheerfully.

“Hell no,” Adam adds.

“Sit,” Anathema orders. Crowley glances around, making as if he’s going to fling himself over the tasting bar, and Adam actually grabs his leg. Crowley reluctantly hoists himself up to sit on the bar. He settles his sunglasses back down on his face and then sighs. Newt hands him the open bottle of Apocalypse. God, Anathema loves how Newt can sometimes read her mind.

Adam holds up a glass. Crowley waves his hand, pops the loose cork, and takes a swig.

“Spit it out, assholes.” Crowley sprawls backwards on the counter, aiming for relaxed. Anathema eyes him for a second; his body language is entirely chill, which Anathema reads to mean he is, of course, extremely stressed out.

“You spit it out,” Adam cracks, and Crowley purses up his lips as if he’s about to spit his mouthful of wine into Adam’s hair. Adam cackles, backing up hastily, and Crowley then has to struggle to swallow it. Newt snorts into his (far tamer) glass of Judith.

Anathema sighs, and then drags one of the stools over to sit as centered on Crowley as she can. “Talk to us, Anthony. What’s up.”

Crowley _hisses,_ which is why Anathema likes using his first name every now and then; it unsettles him, which means she scores points. “I’m, uh, ah, what,” he stammers, adding on what sounds like an extensive collection of all the vowels. “About what?”

Newt snorts again. “About your boyyyyyyfriend,” Adam says, dragging it out with a sly grin.

Crowley’s sputter adds a verifiable dictionary of consonants. “‘Ssss not a — not a thing, you junkmonkeys, one fuckin’ dinner date and you’re all up my ass, shitting Christ. Get lives of your own.”

Anathema cackles. The more defensive Crowley gets, the more creative he starts to get with his vulgarity. This really is beautiful. She’s seen Crowley hovering at the edges of a few casual flings that may have had the potential to get serious, but she has never ever seen him like this.

“Crowley,” she says, using the voice her mother uses when she calls to ask about Anathema’s dreams and reminds her to use her pendulum. (She’s not a kid.) “We just want to know how we’re supposed to be acting when he’s here, alright? Give us a bit of information, alright? Some guidelines.”

Crowley glares at her with a weight she can feel even through the dark lenses on her face. It certainly doesn’t faze Anathema; she’s stared down worse than Crowley when she got her doctorate. But she isn’t trying to be combative, really — she wants to know.

“You like him,” Newt says into the silence that follows, and oh, Anathema _loves_ him.

It’s hard to argue with Newt. This is because Newt is so _sincere._ Newt is just a person with a good heart trying his best in the world, and he _brings_ that when he has to. Newt never has any kind of ulterior motive other than making the people he likes happy, and he’s so simply easy to please it’s really hard to tell him no. Even someone like Crowley, who enjoys stepping on things for fun, won’t step on Newt.

Crowley makes this _aaaaaaiiiiisghsghsss_ noise and then ducks his head and says, “Well, yeah, sure, like the bloke fine, Newton, _wonderful insight._ ”

“Crowley,” Anathema growls. (Newt’s the Hufflepuff. Anathema, a natural Ravenclaw, has to act the Gryffindor in this situation. Or the Slytherin. She’s never really sure which. She’d had to put up with an aunt’s ranting about how poorly they represented witchcraft. Not Aunt Agnes; another aunt. Anathema had been more worried about the racism at the time. And the transphobia.)

“So you like him,” Newt continues, all eager and genuine and maybe it’s unfair of Anathema to enjoy how Newt can aim his sincerity like a cannon, but she does. “Small thing or big thing? Casual or serious? He’s already a friend here; do we treat him like a friend or like your partner?”

Crowley’s entire face has gone this shade of red Anathema hasn’t seen on him since — well, fucking years. He looks entirely too endearing this way. Anathema isn’t at all attracted to Crowley - she _shudders_ \- but this particular aesthetic, rose-blushed cheeks and red hair tumbling down, is something she can appreciate.

“What about you two,” Crowley snips back, but Newt’s ready for that.

“Big thing, serious, partners,” he says proudly, throwing a look at Anathema that’s still as besotted as the day they met. “Really, Crowley, try harder.”

“I hate you all,” Crowley announces, and takes another swig out of the bottle. “Small thing now, maybe big thing later. Not casual, but not serious. Kind of a hnnnnggggkk partner type thing. I guess. Not really defined at the moment.”

Oh, Anathema’s proud of him.

It took Crowley a year and a half to even admit that she and he were _friends,_ despite the fact that she‘d been working as his apprentice since the beginning, and despite the fact that they’d hit it off instantly. Moving at that kind of pace can be self-destructive. At least at this point Crowley’s saying words about the entire situation.

“Enough, then,” says Crowley, emptying the bottle down his throat. “What about the rest of you?”

Anathema glances at Newt, smiles, shrugs.

“Warlock and I are dating,” Adam announces, “and we’re seeing Pepper as a couple.” He’s smirking, as if he expects this to be a shock.

Well. Anathema blinks, processing, and then she really is happy for them. Nevertheless, she clears her throat, and turns on her heel just as Crowley cackles and leans towards Adam himself.

“Spill.”

———

Newt also loves the repetitive motions of making bread. Getting the right balance of flour and water, cuddling the yeast in its pond before working it in — but kneading? Kneading is so relaxing. It’s like knitting (another thing Newt’s great at; another thing Newt loves the gentle repetitive patterns of).

The press, and lift: press and lift, press forward with the palms of your hands and then fold back the edge. Over and over. And there’s always a bit of a magic moment when it all comes together - something about the gluten strands; Newt’s absolutely not a chemist - but with experience he’s learnt the exact feel of it. He can tell instantly when the dough has had enough: something about the texture as it presses forward, or as he folds back.

This evening he’s making the dough for cinnamon rolls. He works it out the night before so that it has the night to rise, then beats it into submission the next day and adds the filling. It’s soothing; it’s tactile; and it smells really damn good.

Adam slips back into the kitchen, an eager grin on his face, and Newt rolls his eyes.

“Adam Young,” he says, “you can _not_ eat raw dough.”

“Hasn’t killed me yet,” says Adam, reaching for it. Newt swats at his hand, ends up getting flour on Adam’s sleeve.

“Did you actually come back here for raw cinnamon roll or are you hiding again,” Newt says conversationally, pressing the dough back out with his palms. It’s close, but there’s still a bit of tension in it; not quite.

“I’m not —!” Adam declares. “Not hiding. It isn’t _my_ fault Crowley says I’ve been creeping him out lately.”

“Certainly not your fault,” Newt replies, so blandly that Adam gives him a glare.

Adam draws a finger through a spill of flour and licks it. Who knows why. He huffs. “If asking him what he wants to do with this place is creeping him out, he should see me with our _other_ customers.”

“Why don’t you just, you know,” Newt starts. “Ask him.”

They’ve had this conversation before. They’re all on the same page, this year - finally ready - and honestly Newt’s brain doesn’t act strategically enough to understand what Adam’s waiting for.

To his surprise, Adam frowns, pressing the pad of his thumb into another little bit of flour. (What? Baking is messy.) “I wanted to wait until he was at a good place with everything, but at this point, I’m about to just drop it on his desk and yell.”

“I think,” Newt says delicately, “that sometimes Crowley’s far too busy to really understand the subtle approach.”

Adam sighs and rubs his palms over his face, flour and all. “I know, I know. But what are the chances he runs us off like he’s trying to do with Hell Law? Crowley doesn’t _want_ to share, and that’s the problem. I don’t want to toss it all in too early and ruin the entire concept for all of us.”

Newt thinks. Pressing the dough forward, folding it back. He adds just a pinch more of cinnamon sugar this time, because it feels like it needs it. It’s like the dough: you push and press and pull until that moment when everything’s just in the right place: Crowley would be livid to know that Newt’s comparing him to a cinnamon roll. He snorts despite himself.

“I’ll talk to Nat,” he says. “See if she’s got a feeling for when we could talk.”

“Cool,” Adam says. “I’m going to go hide in the freezer. Wake me up in an hour so I can thaw.”

———

“Aziraphale,” says Warlock.

“No,” says Aziraphale.

Warlock rubs his hands over his face and then up into his hair, tugging at it in fists, yanking it out of the sloppy ponytail sitting at the base of his skull.

“I know this isn’t your book,” Warlock says.

Aziraphale gasps - dramatically, of course - and tugs his tablet closer. “That isn’t - I can’t - what on earth do you mean, my dear boy?”

“Jesus fucking _wept,_ Az,” Warlock snaps. “It’s me. I’m not a threat. I’m on your fucking side.”

Aziraphale bristles, bringing his shoulders back — and then sags, collapsing, resting his forehead in his palm, elbow propped on the table.

“I’m sorry, my dear,” Az murmurs. “It’s a bit of an odd time for me.”

 _I can tell,_ Warlock doesn’t say. Between his own familiarity with Az’s writing, the snippets Az had sent early on, and the way Michael’s emailing him every eight hours about it, Warlock’s pretty certain it isn’t just his own imagination talking.

“Look, we don’t have to talk about any of your shit,” he tells Az. “But we should at least talk about this, because it’s your work, and I represent your work. Alright?”

He tries to be gentle. His job is to understand: to best match what Az wants to what’s out there. And Warlock’s good.

“You’re right,” Az says, in a tone that’s like admitting defeat. “Look, let me gather some notes together, and we can - well - I do have one or two other ideas. It’s just become a sort of... diary, if you may. A journal. A thought dump. Let me filter through it for some actual writing samples and then I promise I’ll let you tell me what you think.”

Warlock figures that’s the best deal he’ll get.

He’s really trying not to let his own situation color his opinion here. He’s slipped in with the Them as if he’s always meant to be there, both as a friend and as — more. He and Adam are, very tentatively, dating; he and Adam and Pepper - who doesn’t date romantically at all - have something else far more physical going on with the three of them, and while it’s all still brand-new, Warlock thinks that he could, eventually, be — content?

But it has to work around Az. Az is his employer and his friend; his breadwinner and his ward, somehow, at the same time. And Warlock is still getting paid to make things happen for Zira.

“You need to go out with Crowley again,” he says, trying for a light, casual tone, because Az had come home from that whole bit as if all of his worries had been simply tucked into his back pocket.

“Oh, do you think?” Az asks, except that it’s too fast and too much and suddenly Warlock’s still, here, in the middle of the room, wondering what kind of rumblings he’s been missing this entire time.

He tells Aziraphale, “Yes,” confidently, because no matter what the fuck else is sitting in his client’s mind Crowley is _good_ for him. For them. Crowley’s knowledgeable and personable and most importantly, he makes Az laugh. Warlock’s never seen Az laugh so much.

“Hmn.”

It’s an indecisive noise, but Warlock decides to note it as a positive, anyway.

———

Crowley’s a mess. Aziraphale’s here, soft and pale in the dim light, and he’s trying to tell his story about Hastur and Ligur but it’s a busy night and Adam’s out for whatever reason so it’s just Anathema and Newt and him behind the counter. Aziraphale has told him twenty times to go focus on the customers, that no, he’s absolutely fine, but Crowley’s gut is just. Fuck. Whatever.

There’s something in Aziraphale’s eyes that Crowley doesn’t like; it’s making him nervous, working him up. It’s the way Aziraphale’s looking at him like he’s already saying goodbye; like he’s not entirely here. Crowley absolutely fucking hates it. It’s the worst.

But then amidst all of the crazy bustle there’s a soft moment that lands for just a second:

Aziraphale, smiling up at him, confidence back in place as Crowley refills his glass of Lion’s Den. “This isn’t a great night, my dear boy. Why don’t you stop by on Friday night? I can attempt to cook something, although I can’t promise it’ll be fancy. Or good,” he adds, a self-deprecating laugh. “Wine and food critic who can’t cook, go ahead, laugh.”

 _I want you,_ Crowley wants to say. _Just as you are._ “Friday’s fine,” he says. “And I can cook, if you like. I make a great summer shrimp scampi.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale breathes, already all lit up. “That sounds _delightful.”_

Well, and maybe this is just Crowley’s anxiety here? Aziraphale’s smiling at him as if shrimp scampi lights up the world, and he reaches out to squeeze Crowley’s hand, and Jesus fuck, Crowley, get a grip. He’s going to ruin this entire thing if he isn’t careful. Aziraphale is in this, too.

“Perfect,” he tells Aziraphale. “You pick the wine, then. Whatever places you’re visiting to write about, pick up something good. It’ll be fun.”

“It’s a date,” says Aziraphale, and Crowley wants to lean over the bar and kiss him stupid.

———

_I am trying._

__

_None of these things are easy for me. None of them are things I am strong at, or I have the strength for — this phrasing is off; it doesn’t quite capture the glaring gap between where I wish I were and where I am._

_There are times - there are places - there are opportunities that come to us, and they come with a — not a cost. A toll, perhaps; a risk one runs in the having, as we reach out to partake. We fear: we shrink back, unsure of the change, too comfortable in our place to sample from the plate as it passes by. And why? What is it about human nature that makes us stay our hand? Do our mouths not water at a new course?_

_It isn’t only wine I’m writing of, of course, but it applies. We order what we know to the table, because we know it: we know its length and breadth, its flavor profile, the sound of its voice. We want to avoid something jarring - distasteful - unwelcome. But why is that fear so strong? Why does that comfort embed itself in our bones?_

_Is it waste that we are afraid of? A waste of time, of money? A waste of our own efforts? That seems wrong, if only for the fact that we as humans waste so much of our lives already; do we not waste chances when we select the known rather than the new? How does one measure a chance against the known? There it is: that’s the real calamity. Caught up in the wrath of the calculation, that is; variables of risk and reward._

_And want. We cannot forget want. I cannot forget the want that I feel down to my palms. The way the soles of my feet ache with it: that crushing desperation. I would pull him to me and not step away from his flesh for an entire day, thirty-six hours perhaps, were I allowed._

_And why don’t I?_

_This situation is here, it is fact: the Russian River Valley rolls itself out in front of me, a living and breathing welcome carpet, Napa and Sonoma and all the little wineries of the earth. I could commit, could apply myself as if I would be here forever; envelop myself in this land, allow myself to sink beneath its waters. Crowley has committed, has offered, is there. And I try - I try \- I am trying to respond in kind, to put myself there, the way I do know we both want but can’t ever vocalize. We are puzzle pieces, passing in the night. If we even fit, what happens then? It isn’t change I fear, really; it’s the pain of it._

_I cannot back away. But neither can I surge forward. We are here, held in place, and I want this as much as I am afraid to want. Sometimes I fear I’ve simply grown too old for the fruits that grow in this particular soil. Sometimes I fear I’m — sometimes I fear. Really, that’s the core of it._

———

“And this is the 2015 Adam and Eve Reserve,” Anathema tells her customer. They’ve been a bit of a wine snob so far, but she enjoys these kinds of challenges and knows just the wines to pull out to make an impression. This person had started with the whites but had seemed a bit unimpressed by their usual tasting flight, so Anathema has moved on to the Red Reserve tasting flight, which is four of their best dark reds. If none of these impress this customer, she’ll know they’re just being difficult for appearances.

“I’ve also poured you the 2014 Adam and Eve Reserve,” she continues, gesturing. “As I’m sure you know, 2014 was the last of the Golden Years we recently had here in the Valley. The 2015 is stellar, but you can absolutely taste the differences we had in the weather.”

“In 2015 everything went early,” they reply, turning the glass in a familiar gesture. “It’s all so fruit-forward.”

“Well, some people prefer that,” Anathema tells them matter-of-factly. “Not every mouth is made to deal with tannins and leather.”

The customer seems to bristle a bit at that, setting down the glass and picking up the 2014. Even someone as fussy as they seem to be can’t hide their reaction to a primo 2014 Zinfandel, though. Those years had been full of sun and wind, and the grapes had been gorgeously fat on the vine.

“That one,” they say. “Now that’s excellent. Finally.”

Anathema wants to roll her eyes; she does let out a little huff, because she’s not going to let anyone diss her home without some kind of reaction. “You seem to favor reds,” she says, stopping herself from adding a _sir_ or _maam_ because she tries really hard not to make assumptions. “I can add our 2014 Lilith Reserve to your tasting, if you like.”

“Yes, please,” they say, sipping at the 2015 again. “And you’re right. I don’t much like whites.”

“Then why on earth did you do the tasting flight?” Anathema asks. She knows she’s too blunt sometimes but these ones with all of the attitude really drive her up the walls.

They look at her and laugh, surprisingly, this odd rusty sound that makes Anathema think they haven’t laughed in a year. “To see if I liked one, of course,” they tell her, sounding almost offended, and for whatever reason it makes Anathema laugh too. (Although she’s still irritated.)

“Let me grab that 2014 Pinot and I’ll get you set up,” she tells the customer. She’ll absolutely add the tasting charge to their bill; sometimes, if she suggests it hard enough, she’ll let people have a free sample, but this person seems to be taking the process very seriously. Besides, it’s worth a $5 charge to insult those whites. It’s Anathema’s favorite Chardonnay in the world.

As she checks the opens to make sure there isn’t already one there, Anathema sees Crowley out of the corner of her eye. His hair is in this gorgeous messy braid today, all tangled and tousled, and he’s leaning over the counter to flirt with Aziraphale. Mr. Fell looks relaxed, the top button of his shirt undone; he gives her a cheerful wave which she returns heading to the basement.

She’s hit again with that sense of knowing - a p-word moment - that there’s something dreadfully important about the two of them sitting together like that. It feels like the growth of something important - vital - new. It’s probably all in her head though. Everyone in the back is shipping the two of them together, it seems, and she’s probably just getting ideas from that.

Anathema returns to the tasting room and opens the bottle of the 2014 Pinot Noir. There are rules on when to open a bottle of reserve, but Anathema’s good at what she does, and she can tell by the taste in the air that this person is willing to buy multiple bottles if there are any that pass their hefty judgment.

“Here,” she says with a smile. “2014 Lilith Reserve. You’ve already got the 2015 Lilith, too, so it’s perfect for comparison.”

They look at Anathema for a long moment, and then reach out to take the glass. “I’m trusting you,” they say, almost sharp, and Anathema grins because once they admit that, they’re _hers._

———

Newt chucks his boxers into the hamper and tugs on his pajama pants. God, but it feels good to be _done_ with the day; Fridays are always a bit awful. Anathema had taken a number of ruder customers, which Newt always appreciates, except that it leaves him with the casual visitors: the tourists who are more here to get slowly drunk on tiny tastes for the _experience_. They _talk._ Newt can make conversation with a flagpole, but there’s always a point where he just runs out of words.

Anathema’s already curled up in the corner of the couch, under their favorite blanket — it’s a surprisingly balmy 60 degrees F tonight, but Anathema likes the feeling of being underneath something. That something is, occasionally, Newt, who has learnt over the years how to lie with exactly enough weight on his partner for her to feel it without crushing her into the mattress or couch. There’s a learning curve, but once he figured it out, it’s absolutely rewarding to hear the way Anathema sighs into his ear as her entire body relaxes and melts.

Tonight, though, she picks up the edge of the blanket and lifts her arm. Newt obediently climbs in. Most nights he likes to have an arm around Anathema, but there are times when she _needs_ to hold _him_ , and Newt’s fine with that. He tucks his head into her shoulder and arranges his lanky limbs on the couch, letting Nat tug him close.

“Exhausted,” she says, finally. “Made a lot of good sales, mind you, it’ll be a great week for us, but man. People get so _nasty._ ”

“You’re so good at it though,” Newt tells her, throwing an arm over her hips. “You hit the right notes of pleasantly offended and passive aggressive. I couldn’t do that if I tried,” he mourns.

“No, you couldn’t,” she says, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. “That’s why I do it.”

“And you enjoy it,” Newt snarks back at her. “Don’t lie to me.”

He can feel her chuckling underneath him. “A bit,” she admits. “But it’s also so tiring. Ugh.”

“Day off’s soon,” Newt says. Sundays are a fresh breath of air for the both of them.

Anathema stirs, then tugs him closer. “Did you ever think you’d be here?” Her voice is pensive. “I don’t mean here, specifically, but like. Working six days out of seven any given week, long hours, strenuous — putting this much into a career?”

“I didn’t have very much drive when I was younger,” Newt confesses. “I always thought I’d just end up as a — a wages clerk, or something.”

“Wages clerk!” Anathema crows. “You’d be _wasted,_ honey. Don’t think I haven’t noticed the arm muscles you’ve put on over the years.”

“Beating chilled dough into submission is hard,” Newt tells her, and he wiggles a bit against her to make her giggle.

Anathema stills her laughter. “I’m not sure what I wanted to do,” she says. “I think half of my family expected me to just live off of the fortune, go off on some dramatic adventure to save the dolphins or whatnot. I didn’t even know I wanted to _work_ until I interned with Crowley. And here I am.”

“Here we are.” Newt turns so that he can press a kiss into her shoulder, through her nightgown. “Witch and wages clerk, now assistant whatevers at the most dramatic winery in the Russian River Valley.”

“Cheek,” Anathema says, but she bends to kiss him anyway.

———

They’ve finished off Crowley’s absolutely delicious shrimp scampi - served over summer vegetables, asparagus and zucchini over the linguine - and have polished off the angel food cake he’d also brought - with fresh strawberries - and Aziraphale’s skin is humming.

He’s well fed, well-drank; he has a bottle of delicious red in him and is sipping an absolutely lovely Syrah, and is about to take a chance.

They’re sprawled out on the couch in his sitting room. The telly is playing something in the background - some strange cooking show Crowley’s incredibly fond of - and Aziraphale can feel that liquid heat growing in his belly. Growing between the both of them, really, based on the way Crowley’s eyes are lingering on Aziraphale’s hands and wrists. As if he wants to lean in, nip at the skin, press a gentle kiss there.

Aziraphale has never felt more _desired_. His general, well, shape and mannerisms don’t necessarily equate to most people’s ideals of sexiness these days, but there’s something both hungry and awe-filled in Crowley’s eyes that makes Aziraphale feel… wanted. Admired. Admirable. Desirable.

It’s addicting, it’s heady, and it’s like everything is suddenly okay. _How can I fear so much in your absence, when your mere presence here makes all of my worries vanish?_

Crowley’s blathering on about something - whales? birds? stars? It’s been all three at some point - and Aziraphale just takes a moment to turn the appreciation back onto his companion. One leg’s tucked up on the couch, the other kicked out to the floor, hips seemingly misaligned with his spine. Crowley’s looking at him, sunglasses off, grin on, one arm resting over the back of the couch with his wineglass and the other gesturing frantically into the air.

He knows rationally that all of his concerns won’t go away immediately. He knows they’ll be there tomorrow when he wakes up. But right now everything feels so _good_ and Aziraphale doesn’t often find this kind of courage within himself. He’s so _cautious_ — but tonight he’s going to try not to be. Maybe Crowley’s moving fast, but tonight, Aziraphale’s going to try to keep up. He’s going to try going a bit fast, himself.

“Angel?” Crowley’s voice breaks through his thoughts and Aziraphale blinks. Crowley’s leaned back, grinning, gorgeous at rest. “I talked you right off a cliff, didn’t I.”

Aziraphale says nothing, just lets his eyes trace the outlines of Crowley, and then sighs. “I’m sorry, my dear,” he admits. “I’m thinking of asking you something terribly straightforward, and it’s a bit — awkward for me.”

“Awkward?” The grin grows, tilts. “It’s me, angel. No awkward required.”

“Well then,” Aziraphale breathes. “Will you stay the night?”

Crowley’s breath catches - Aziraphale sees it - but it only takes a couple false starts before he says, “Have done before. Wot, you got breakfast plans?”

Aziraphale moves closer on the couch. It’s a clumsy move, but you wouldn’t know it by the way Crowley’s gem-lit eyes go dark. “Crowley,” he says, suddenly caught up in the moment, the intensity of this thing between them, the way he wants to bite Crowley up and swallow him down, keep him inside his burning chest forever. “My dear Crowley. I’m asking. May I…” He trails off, looking down at his hands for a moment, and then back up, because they’re shaking a bit. “May I take you to bed?”

Crowley’s swallow is audible. His desire is flaring inside the room. Every ounce of his attention is on Aziraphale and it feels like a fire born from laser precision. The silence draws on so long that Aziraphale’s suddenly afraid that this is _too_ fast, but then Crowley takes in a deep breath and holds out his hand.

“Yes,” says Crowley.

From there it’s somewhat of a haze, like they’re both moving through this thick cloud of want and lust. Aziraphale stands, pulls Crowley to him. Crowley bends, clutching at Aziraphale’s hair and the back of his shirt. Their kisses splash like fire, searing against lips and necks and skin. Aziraphale can’t be sure, but he thinks they’re both shirtless by the time he’s stumbled them into his bedroom. There’s a moment of stillness - Crowley’s eyes flicking around the room, taking it in, as if he expects to never see it again - that seems to sear itself into Aziraphale’s memory.

The feeling of Crowley’s skin finally up against his sends Aziraphale right back into that haze. They’ve made it to the bed at least, and there’s a desperately lovely bit where hands and mouths are exploring and marking new skin. Another moment: Crowley glancing up at him as his tongue flicks against a nipple. Crowley’s dear mismatched eyes are so wide with arousal it almost looks like terror. Aziraphale desperately needs him.

“Crowley,” he catches himself saying in a moment so emotionally charged it’s like they’re sharing space on the same plane. His hands are at Crowley’s fly and he wants to tug, see if he’s strong enough to _tear._ He wants to scour Crowley open and feed at the gap. “Crowley, may I, can I.”

It’s barely a question but Crowley’s hissing _yes_ in his ear, his initial reluctance drowned as he pulls a bruising kiss out of Aziraphale’s collarbone. “Angel,” Crowley breathes, and Aziraphale’s undone.

In the end they barely get their trousers and pants off before they’re simply pressed together, grinding blindly, both of them panting hard into the other’s skin. Aziraphale thinks, another odd moment out of time, that he might still be wearing one sock. But he has Crowley beneath him, all of those sharp angles on display, and Crowley’s hands are on Aziraphale’s hips, pulling him closer as Crowley thrusts himself into that pressure, his cock sliding right next to Aziraphale’s.

It’s crazy. Aziraphale’s so subsumed in this; it’s like all of his nerves have gone on vacation except the ones that desperately want to come, to release in that tight space between his hips and Crowley’s; his mouth is on Crowley’s shoulder, suddenly biting, and Crowley actually _whimpers_ as he comes simply from the frottage alone. His entire body is shaking and between that and the added slick, Aziraphale groans, deep and desperate, humping into Crowley’s prone shuddering body until he hits a dazzling climax, his eyes whiting out until all that he can hear is the hiss of Crowley’s _yesssssss_ as he shoots between their bellies _._

———

Crowley’s floating on a soft wave of bliss: that post-orgasmic sag, his nerves still humming quietly. He’s surrounded by the smell of Aziraphale; the sheets smell like him, or he smells of the sheets, or whichever. He isn’t quite sure what happened but he’s fairly sure he just got himself off grinding into the crease of Aziraphale’s thigh and something as simple and crude as that should _not_ feel this bloody good.

He’s about to get restless - Aziraphale said _spend the night_ , but did he mean that, or did he mean _get in my bed?_ \- and all the questions start to bubble up to the surface. Inviting a man into your bed for, y’know, the _ngk akfjhl_ grinding thing is much different than inviting him to _stay._ Should he slither on out to the couch? Oh god, he’s absolutely starkers.

Crowley usually doesn’t get naked with partners, as a general rule. He knows what he looks like; he knows he looks far better with his particularly tailored clothes _on_ than he does with them on someone’s floor. At the moment, though, all he’d wanted was to press his skin so close to Aziraphale’s that they’d melt. Exchange electrons in the quantum spaces; some parts of Crowley are now Aziraphale, and the same way otherwise. He isn’t ashamed to be naked and he doesn't regret it but it isn’t helping the apprehension he can feel building in his stomach.

He must twitch, or tense, or something stupid because Aziraphale gathers him up, pulling Crowley in so that his back’s pressing up to Aziraphale’s soft belly. “Stay,” Aziraphale whispers. “Stay the night, please.”

Crowley’s aware this is both of them going out on a limb — or driving a truck off a cliff; he isn’t sure which metaphor will be more accurate in the end. But Aziraphale’s murmuring something sleepy into Crowley’s hair, and _hell_ but he’s solid, a safe presence like a wall at Crowley’s back.

He’s suddenly exhausted, but it’s more a feeling of blissed-out: an angel behind him, deliciously messy mutual orgasms, an expanse of skin. An invitation into Aziraphale’s bed; into his room. Is he high? Is this a fucking wine dream? Does it even fuckin’ matter? He’s comfortable as shit here, and the soothing press of Aziraphale behind him is enough to help him drift off to sleep.

“I’ll stay, angel,” Crowley murmurs. Aziraphale makes a very pleased noise, buries his face into Crowley’s hair, and exhales. And that feels so shockingly - this is so - they _fit,_ fuck, it’s kind of ridiculous how well his edges tuck into Aziraphale’s curves. If he thought they fit before - hips locked together, both of them panting - this is almost _better._ The calm satisfaction of it, like a piece a long time missing has finally settled into place.

Crowley makes a noise deep in his throat, laces his fingers with Aziraphale, and lets his body sink down into the comfort of a place he never, ever thought he’d find.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So here's a confession: there's an AU of this AU! Please check out [The Art of Forging Wine](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25698271), another Good Omens wine-related AU, written by myself and [Jamthony](https://archiveofourown.org/users/D20Owlbear/pseuds/D20Owlbear), and the fault of [CruciatusForeplay](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CruciatusForeplay/pseuds/CruciatusForeplay). The goal is to tell a story through small but meaningful vignettes not told in chronological order, so never fear; it's nothing big and it's all for fun.
> 
> And this AU continues. The next 3 chapters might hit hard. I'm not telling. But they might. A bit. There's so much going on under the surface of what's happening now and trust me every time someone comments with what they think (or want) to happen, I'm internally yelling.
> 
> Please let me know what you thought of this one! I love all of you readers!


	13. Grape Shatter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale faces an unfortunate and unwanted surprise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OKAY YALL: I have a couple things I need to say about this chapter. If you're the kind of reader that wants to dive right in and not have to deal with the author's blatherings or potential spoilery hints, scroll past this and head for the good stuff.
> 
> and for those who like a little bit of warning, a few things to say based on last chapter's comments:
> 
>   * content warnings for this chapter include: anxiety, panic, slight dissociation, denial, vague fatshaming, and Gabriel being That Boss We Have All Had At Some Point.
>   * Yes, this chapter starts the angsty portion of this story. It's been coming for a while, if you've been paying attention. Please remember that Aziraphale has never been a reliable narrator when it comes to himself.
>   * Yes -- this fic will absolutely have a happy ending. In fact, I think it's a great ending; there are some really powerful moments left to come, and I think it will be incredibly satisfying once we get there. I'm not going to writ nearly 200,000 words of this and leave them all hanging, don't worry.
>   * For commenters who are concerned about what's to come, please note you can always DM me on [Tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/sevdrag) or Discord (Sevdrag#1043) if you have personal concerns about upcoming bits in the story. I've tried very hard to spoil NOTHING, but I am happy to give out story spoilers individually if they make people feel more comfortable reading this.
> 

> 
> As always -- I love all of you. Your comments give me life. I am fully prepared to be yelled at this time.

It smells like — a forest? Yes, a forest, dappled in shade. Evergreens; the scent of fir and hemlock. Wet soil. Hints of sunlight; the sound of a brook.

It feels like the ocean though: broad and bobbing; safe and soothing, the sound of waves in the background, the careful rock-rock-rock of the tide. He’s clutching at something, something warm and precious. A bag; a book; it breathes against him, relaxed in utter repose.

Aziraphale can hear a thumping noise, far off in the distance, someone trying to enter the ark; someone knocking on this boat. And he can hear a sound, tinny like bells, a song he knows but cannot place. He tugs the warmth closer to himself, his hand splayed across its surface as if he can protect it from whatever these noises mean to be.

The scent shifts; the mass in his arms moves. It’s flowers, for a bit, all bright and ripe, and then back to the scent of the shadows between trees. Aziraphale buries his face in the depth of it. So many layers, here, as they gently rock upon the surface of this sea. The fog has wound its way into his brain but he doesn’t mind, really; it’s quiet, here, softer than normal, and the fog hushes his normal anxiety so well.

The bells peal again: bright, blossoming, too sharp across this seascape, and Aziraphale realizes that it’s the ringtone on his mobile and groans as the rest of his brain wakes itself up.

It’s Crowley he’s clutching to himself, of course: Crowley’s arms are sprawled forwards, as is at least one leg, in an effort to take up as much space as possible; but Crowley’s also tucked up against Aziraphale’s belly, one of Aziraphale’s thighs thrown over the remaining leg, hip to hip. He’s warm and soft and so precious and Aziraphale has an arm curled around Crowley’s chest to keep him close. With his arms flung out he looks like a jellyfish or some other sort of ridiculous creature.

Aziraphale realizes belatedly that the woods and flowers are buried in Crowley’s hair, much like his own face.

That pounding sounds again, and Aziraphale tries to wake up the rest of his fog-soaked, groggy brain to listen to it. It’s probably just, well, who knows. Is Madame Tracy having some kind of emergency? A delivery-man looking for a signature? Maybe it’s just Warlock, up to no good.

His mobile rings again. This time it’s crystal-sharp, silica-bright, and Aziraphale belatedly realizes it may have been ringing for a good while, his brain interpreting it into dream-sound. He suspects it’s just Madame Tracy or Shadwell, but that falls away when he picks up the mobile to see Gabriel’s name blazing across his screen. Hmph. His first time in bed with Crowley and there are two emergencies he has to deal with? That’s utterly unfair.

Aziraphale swipes to answer the call and makes a noise into the phone, following it up belatedly with coherence: “Gabriel. I’m sorry. How can I help you?”

“You can open the door, sunshine,” Gabriel says, and it’s like every single atom of Aziraphale’s being freezes. “I brought bagels! And energy smoothies! On me, of course, ha ha; I wouldn’t expect you to pay when you aren’t expecting a visit, of course!”

Every single ounce of his being is caught in a vice, taut and tender and Aziraphale can feel the sheer, pure, unadulterated _panic_ climbing up his spine with a set of ice picks and novocaine. “I, er, well,” he says into the phone, well aware that this is a stalling technique, and a relatively poor one at best. “You’re here?”

Gabriel laughs, and Aziraphale can picture the smile he’s speaking through. “Of course I’m here! You can’t be too busy to entertain your boss, are you? Especially if you’re still in bed at 7:30, Aziraphale, haven’t you ever heard of rise and shine?”

“Most wineries don’t open until past noon,” Aziraphale hears his mouth telling Gabriel over the phone. “It’s a different schedule than LA.” His body does this sometimes, some low-brain instinct managing to make passable conversation while the rest of his mind has a vacation — or, more realistically, a panic attack.

“Of course it is.” Gabriel chuckles. “Wine country time! Slackers. Anyway, come let me in, I’m ready to get this day rolling.”

“Just a mo,” Aziraphale says into the phone, every single ounce of panic he’s feeling bleeding out into his tone, and he hangs up on his boss without even thinking about it and then sits there with his thumb pressed against the glass surface, unable to move.

_Oh, good lord. Gabriel’s here to fire me. Or worse: promote me! (Wait, why is that worse?) No, he’s absolutely here because I’m in trouble. Oh, bugger and bother, he knows about Crowley, he’s going to claim conflict of interest and terminate my contract, oh for shite’s sake. He’s going to say or do something nasty about Crowley. He’s going to give me a scolding. He’s going to — oh, damn, Crowley._

Crowley. Crowley is _here;_ somehow he’s slept through the banging on the door and the mobile ringtone and Aziraphale’s own fright, rising in his gut, already passing through his lungs to choke out his breathing and suddenly Aziraphale wonders whether panic-induced asthma is a thing because he _cannot get air into his lungs._

Oh, bloody hell, his boss is outside and he has the owner of the winery he’s been writing about _in his bed._ Absolutely _starkers._

Aziraphale spends a long moment thinking he’s actually going to vomit. Then he pulls away from Crowley - gently; maybe Crowley will sleep through all of this - and scrambles out of bed to hastily throw on his robe. Every muscle in his body is clenched with stress. He’s shallowly panting. This will _not_ do, oh, buggering crap, how on _earth_ is he going to manage this.

Warlock. Bless him. He’s upstairs. Aziraphale fumbles at his phone for a few moments before typing _**HELP ME!!!!!!**_ and texting it to Warlock’s mobile. Will Crowley be able to fit out a window? Oh, oh blessed hell.

Aziraphale catches himself just before he exits the room. Should he wake Crowley up, try to explain? How on earth do you explain a problem like Gabriel? Or should he allow Crowley to sleep in the hopes that he sleeps though this unexpected visit? Oh, Aziraphale’s gut wasn’t made for this stress. It’s a pressure cooker in there.

It’s utterly unfair how lovely Crowley looks in his sleep, as well: still curled in the shape of the letter C, red curls flung out over the pillow, face half buried in his arm. It’s utterly unfair because Aziraphale knows he should be appreciating the sight but it really only fills him with dread, at the moment, because _his manager_ is standing at the door waiting to come in, take one look at Crowley, and fire Aziraphale.

Oh, hell. He can’t stall any longer. Aziraphale slips out of the room, praying that Crowley just sleeps through whatever this is, and heads for the front door.

Of course Gabriel’s wide awake and grinning like he’s never had a lie-in in his life. “Aziraphale!” he crows, and Aziraphale ducks his head as he gestures Gabriel in. He has forgotten how _loud_ the blasted man can be; if Gabriel wakes Crowley, they’re all done for. 

Gabriel thrusts his hands out. One hand is holding a crinkled paper bag; the other, a cardboard carrier with three unappetizingly green drinks in it. “I brought breakfast! Wheat-grass smoothies and gluten-free bagels! We’re going to start your day out _right,_ Aziraphale, nice and healthy.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale says. He honestly isn’t sure what on earth else he’s supposed to say. “Well, thank you.” He gestures towards the kitchen, which has the advantage of not being near the master suite where Crowley is currently sleeping. “Shall we?”

“It’s a nice place,” Gabriel booms, glancing around at the house. “I only saw the photos, but wow, we’ve done well by you this trip, haven’t we?”

“Yes.” Aziraphale’s voice is warbling at this point, and he is absolutely unaware of anything except the nauseous churning of his own stomach. The words are coming out of his mouth without any conscious thought, which should terrify him, except that so far he’s doing rather well. “It’s lovely, truly.”

“Got a coffee for your old boss?” Gabriel chuckles. “The least you could do, Aziraphale, you aren’t even dressed!”

Well, _that’s_ uncalled for, but Gabriel says it like one of his jokes, so Aziraphale laughs. “It’s one of those pod machines,” he tells his manager. “Go on, make yourself one, and I’ll go get dressed.”

He beats a hasty retreat to the bedroom. Crowley’s still asleep, and as Aziraphale dresses hastily he wonders again whether he should wake the other man. He’s afraid Crowley won’t understand, or that he’ll react - poorly - oh, ugh, what on _earth_ is he going to do?

His heart is pounding as if he’s run a marathon. Or a mile, even; Aziraphale finds running absolutely unnecessary. He wonders whether he’s having a heart attack, and if not, what on earth else he can do to induce one so that he doesn’t have to face this visit.

He’s forgotten how Gabriel makes hims feel: like he’s small, stupid, worthless. Gabriel hasn’t even been here for five minutes and Aziraphale already feels like a failure for not being ready to greet the day — never mind that his life here is _his own life._ Gabriel’s just like that: he has the personality of a game show host, but one that ends up condescendingly belittling you even in the rare occurrence that you win the prize.

 _Focus,_ Aziraphale thinks. He now has a problem on his hands. Oh, it isn’t fair to think of his boss as a problem, is it?

“Crowley,” he murmurs, finally, and he isn’t surprised when there’s no response.

“Just stay in bed,” Aziraphale continues. “Just rest. I’ll manage my boss. Come out when it’s quiet, okay? Just head home, I’m so terribly sorry, and I’ll talk to you when this is all over.”

Crowley doesn’t move. Aziraphale assumes that means he’s fast asleep. Well, that’s good too. He reaches for his mobile and texts Crowley’s:

_**For some inane reason my boss has arrived. A surprise visit. Heavens only knows why. Do be a dear and stay in bed until this all blows over? I’ll make it worth your while, later.** _

Aziraphale slips back out of his bedroom and heads to the kitchen. Where the _hell_ is Warlock? Gabriel’s seated at the kitchen table, a mug of black coffee steaming gently in front of him, one of the smoothies already a third down.

“Well, good morning,” Gabriel says, and it’s mocking and laughing at the same time. “Here, this is for you.” He slides over a thin bagel that looks like it’s made out of cardboard. “Seven-grain gluten-free bagel, a real marvel, that is. And this is your smoothie. I had them add the fat-burning protein, just for you. Ha ha!”

It’s meant to be nice. It’s just Gabriel. But Aziraphale for a moment can’t talk through the way the bile has risen in his throat, his own anxiety mixing with that black mood Gabriel’s comments always call out of his gut. “Thank you,” he says, _just_ managing not to choke on it. “It looks scrumptious.” That’s the biggest lie he has ever told; it looks like tree bark. Aziraphale _pines_ for an egg, cheese melted on top, avocado and tomato; with that in place the bagel might actually be ignorable.

He pulls his mobile out of his pocket and sends Warlock another message: _**wake up, please, Gabriel is here for fuck’s sake and i need you**_

“So,” says Gabriel. “If I’m just here for the day - driving back tonight, you know. What’s the plan? I want to see a few of the places you’ve written about. This is all _fascinating_ stuff, Aziraphale.”

“Heavens,” Aziraphale says, his mouth again forming words without his own input. “How long is that drive?”

“A bit over five hours,” Gabriel says, as if that’s an absolutely negligible bit of time. “Nothing significant. If I leave at five tonight, I’ll be in bed at a perfectly respectable hour.”

Aziraphale tries to do the math required to figure out when Gabriel woke up this morning in order to be here at seven-thirty, but his head’s still sleep-strewn and anxiety-fogged, and he gives it up as a decent enough effort. His heart is banging along at ninety miles per hour, and his brain’s stuck at zero.

“What a surprise!” His mouth offers, and Aziraphale decides that’s as good a conversational tack as any. “Why are — what on earth has you driving up here like this?”

Gabriel chuckles and takes a big slurping swig of his grossly green smoothie. “I’ve been saying it the whole time, haven’t I?” He shrugs. “I had a day, and with what’s going on about your book, I thought it might be nice to have a face-to-face discussion, you know?”

Aziraphale’s stomach, already dragging on the floor, sinks further. “What’s going on about my book,” he repeats, feeling like he has swallowed a black hole. “I mean. Um.” _OH, lord, he really is here to fire me._

“Well, you’ll find this funny!” Gabriel laughs louder. “Here I am, thinking this is the best writing I’ve seen from you yet, and Michael starts nipping at my heels that you can do _better._ I’m not sure I know what she’s thinking, but it takes the two of us to tango that book all the way to best-seller status, so I thought it would be nice to talk about the book with you, here, for a bit.”

“Ah,” says Aziraphale. He really isn’t sure what else he can say. He’s nearly shaking. Every piece of him is tensed, and his entire brain feels mis-aligned, as if the parts of him that are able to quip and quote and make sense are about three feet to his right; he can’t quite access it, really, and that’s terrifying. He grips his hands tighter around his mug.

“Try your drink!” Gabriel’s booming again, and Aziraphale hears footsteps. He glances up, in a rush of panic, but it’s just Warlock approaching. He’s wearing saggy pajama pants that say _Daredevil_ up the leg and a plain white undershirt; he looks like he’s still asleep. “Warlock!” Gabriel booms. Heavens, the man is as made of exclamation points as his emails are. “I’ve brought you a bagel and a smoothie! Good morning, sleepy head.”

Warlock looks over to Aziraphale and there’s a very comforting moment when their eyes meet and they both have the same incredulous _this cannot actually be happening in my life_ expression on their faces.

“S’ry, Mister Archer,” Warlock manages to stumble out of his mouth, heading immediately to the coffee machine. “Nothing opens here until ten at the earliest. Had to rearrange our entire sleep schedules.”

“Oh!” Gabriel spins in his seat to beam at Aziraphale. “I thought you were joking, Aziraphale! I feel so much better! Good work,” he continues. “Circadian rhythms are absolutely crucial for optimum health. I’m so very proud that you’ve bothered to rearrange yours for this work opportunity.”

Aziraphale, who hasn’t ever been awake before 9:30 without regretting it, nods kind of idly, thinking this is probably a good thing to agree to.

“Az,” says Warlock, having chugged half a mug of coffee and looking much more aware of the situation. “Some egg for that bagel? We still have cream cheese. How about tomato?”

 _You deserve a raise,_ Aziraphale almost says out loud, but he manages to nod without letting the words escape.

———

Surprisingly, after an absolutely excessive amount of coffee and tea has been consumed - Aziraphale, to his benefit, ate half of the bagel once Warlock had smothered eggs and cheese on it - and a lot of very awkward conversation, things have somewhat calmed between the awkward trio at the table. Aziraphale almost feels like his brain has moved back into his corporation; as if senses and body are reknitting themselves together.

Which, of course, is when Crowley stumbles into the kitchen.

And, well, _fuck._

Crowley’s a vision: he’s entirely topless, those burnished-red curls cascading forward over both shoulders. His eyes are hooded, still sleepy. He’s wearing a pair of cream-colored tartan pyjama pants he must have nicked from Aziraphale’s dresser, and they’re charmingly large on him; he’s rolled the waistband at least twice. The lines of his chest are _obscene;_ Aziraphale can’t keep his eyes off of the crest of Crowley’s bony hips above the rolled flannel.

(For a moment all of Aziraphale’s breath catches in his throat and he has this feeling, like vertigo, that something incredible has just occurred to him but he won’t be able to decipher it until he lands.)

It’s absolutely delicious and Aziraphale freezes in his seat, disgusting cardboard bagel halfway to his mouth, all of his muscles suddenly clenched to hold their place in the hopes that, well, what? That Gabriel wouldn’t notice the incredibly attractive man who has invaded their kitchen for a coffee?

“Oh,” says Gabriel. It’s the tone of voice he uses when Aziraphale’s done something wrong; when he’s maybe left too strong of a review on his blog, or he’s contacted a restaurant owner to talk about the menu, or some other million mistakes Aziraphale’s made on this journey. The tone of voice that makes Aziraphale’s stomach drop to the floor like it’s full of lead. Mercury. Poison. “I didn’t realize you had a _guest_ here. Aziraphale, who’s your _friend?_ ”

Crowley glances over through a curtain of curls as he sets a coffee to brewing, and Aziraphale — panics.

_He knows, Gabriel knows, he’s just here to — my posts must have been to obviously full of affection and flattery — oh, fuck, this is the end._

His throat is choked, his lungs won’t fill, his thighs are so tense they might fall off of his body, and the way Gabriel takes a breath suddenly is the worst thing he’s ever heard. His spine feels like it’s an extension cord, full of terrible electricity just waiting to teach him some kind of lesson.

Gabriel’s looking at his with this expectation on his face, wearing the same expression he does when Aziraphale has screwed something up and Gabriel’s just waiting for him to realize it.

_This can’t be it; how can I spin this, how can I make this look natural, neutral, how can I cover this up, I need to figure out an excuse..._

His mouth opens all by itself. “He isn’t my friend,” Aziraphale finds himself saying, absolutely outside of any rational decision making. “I mean. He’s a — an acquaintance. His. Em. Well. He had a, um, a burst pipe, you see, and since this place is so gorgeously large, I offered him a room. We barely know each other. It’s just. It’s an emergency, Gabriel. Well. You know what I’m like.”

He freezes. The words are thick with denial. That isn’t at _all_ what he wanted to say, but the working pieces of his brain and his mouth seem to have flung themselves across the room. And to his absolute and entire shame, Aziraphale glances at Gabriel first — to see whether or not he has passed.

Gabriel’s looking at him, but when Aziraphale meets his eyes, he tilts his head as if in surrender. “Oh, Aziraphale,” he says, and it’s so condescending Aziraphale feels nauseous. “You’ve always been a soft touch, haven’t you?” Gabriel rolls his eyes, and sighs dramatically. It just makes Aziraphale feel smaller and more helpless.

Aziraphale risks a glance up. He wishes he hadn’t. Crowley’s gorgeous, gem-bright mismatched eyes are wide, as if he’s trying to make something work out and failing, and all Aziraphale can do is swallow. He wants to say something, to counter all of it, but what the hell would he say that wouldn’t put his entire career in jeopardy? What on earth is he supposed to do? Aziraphale’s fairly sure he has _never_ felt this helpless, this tangled up in a space where he has absolutely no idea what to fucking _do._

The way Crowley is looking at him makes him feel _gutted._

“Az,” says Warlock, and there’s something in his voice that makes Aziraphale glance over. He can’t quite read the expression. Warlock looks concerned, conserved, and he might be trying to send Aziraphale some kind of message but with the entirety of his conscious thought floating five feet to the right Aziraphale is pretty sure he isn’t going to pick up on anything important.

“It’s alright,” Aziraphale’s mouth says without any input of his own. “I invited him here. Gabriel, you have to understand. You’ve been so generous with the house, you know.” _Please don’t fire me. I’m not making trouble. I promise._

He flicks a glance at Crowley but then has to look away. Crowley’s frozen, his blazing tumble of curls over his shoulder, holding a hot cup of coffee with an expression on his face that says he really hopes he’s dreaming — or having a nightmare. Aziraphale has no idea what to do with him. Everything expressive about Crowley’s face is frozen, stuck in some in-between place Aziraphale has _never_ seen before.

Aziraphale gulps air. His hands are trembling like leaves. His heart is rabbiting like a hummingbird. His metaphors are mixing.

Crowley’s eyes refocus on Aziraphale, then, and it hits him like an actual punch to the gut. Crowley’s lovely eyes are hooded, reticent in a way Crowley’s never been before. He can _read_ the hurt in Crowley’s brow, the stunned look around his lips, the way every single piece of him has shuttered up like a house in a hurricane. Oh, hell, _he’s_ the hurricane, and everything so tender and raw and open that Crowley offers him is now — Aziraphale has to swallow and look away because there’s something choking his throat that he doesn’t want to think about.

Crowley’s standing there, so vulnerable - newly awake, chest bare, eyes bare - and Aziraphale can _see_ the way his words have reached into Crowley’s chest and twisted up that gorgeous heart.

“My apologies,” Crowley says eventually, in a voice that sounds like it’s currently being strangled. “I’ll get out of your hair then.”

“Oh, no rush!” Gabriel’s beaming and Aziraphale has no idea whether Gabriel’s just being his overly annoying self or if this is some kind of trap. “Have your coffee! Aziraphale, aren’t you going to introduce us?”

He’s going to throw up, he truly is. “Gabriel,” Aziraphale says slowly. “Allow me to introduce you to Anthony Crowley, owner and viticulturalist of the _Ecdyses_ winery. Crowley, this is Gabriel, my manager at FTA.”

Recognition flickers in Crowley’s eyes for a moment, but the look fades back to the same blank neutral expression. “Charmed,” Crowley says, in a frosty tone that makes Aziraphale shiver.

“Oh, you’ve written about that one, haven’t you, Aziraphale!” Gabriel claps him on the back. “We’ll have to visit today, once we’re _ready_ and _out of the house_.”

Aziraphale’s stomach does an entire flip at the thought. Walking into _Ecdyses_ and having to pretend he isn’t fond of Anathema, and Newt, and Adam even; having to sit across the tasting bar from Crowley himself and not pretend he isn’t fucking besotted... He glances up.

Crowley’s posture is as unwelcoming as a statue.

Aziraphale is absolutely aware that he’s fucked up.

But he’s just trying to stay _afloat,_ now. Gabriel Archer is _here_ in the kitchen FTA has obtained for him, and he’s here to talk about Aziraphale’s book, which is Aziraphale’s livelihood. He’s risking everything he’s worked for in his career here! Maybe Crowley will understand, once the shock of the morning fades! Aziraphale certainly wouldn’t expect Crowley to choose _him_ over the winery? That’s absurd.

Crowley picks up his mug, mutters some kind of excuse, and leaves the kitchen.

“Not a cheerful one, is he?” Gabriel grins and slurps at his smoothie. “Drink up, Warlock, I had them add an energy booster to yours!”

Warlock’s looking back and forth between Aziraphale and Gabriel, as if he’s waiting for some kind of sign. Aziraphale’s flat out. This is already a disaster and he’s barely been awake an hour. He kind of wants to cry.

He hears the front door open, then slam shut, and he winces at the sound. Warlock’s eyes on him become accusatory for a long moment. Gabriel, luckily, is distracted by the slurping sounds of his smoothie. Aziraphale widens his eyes at Warlock; what on earth else could he have done?

_Anything, you idiot. Anything on earth would be better than this, better than Crowley angrily fleeing the house after such a tender evening, better than you denying the man you’re in — you’re in a relationship with — to his face._

It’s barely 8:00. What on earth is he going to _do._

———

They eventually settle out on the porch. The mornings in the Russian River Valley are still cool enough that it’s pleasant out here. Even though the days can break 85F, the nights still drop into the fifties, which is somewhat perfect and helps make the heat more bearable.

Warlock has devoted himself to making refills of coffee and tea, and giving both Gabriel and Aziraphale weighted looks. It isn’t fun. Aziraphale already feels like his stomach is eating his appendix and might swallow a kidney. He doesn’t need to be sitting out here in the early dawn of the day trying to make casual conversation with Gabriel of all people when he’s - unintentionally, irrevocably, absolutely - shattered one of the best things that’s ever happened.

One entire loop of his brain is just yelling _Crowley, Crowley, Crowley,_ while displaying that first wounded look he’d seen. This is, of course, entirely unhelpful, although Aziraphale has to wonder a bit at the realization that he cares more about this shrieking part of his own subconscious than he does anything Gabriel is saying.

“So,” Gabriel is saying as Aziraphale tunes back in. “I’m wondering if we need to work out some sort of... hybrid project.” There’s a distinct grumble in Gabriel’s voice, and — huh. Well. Normally Aziraphale’s set on edge by that tone of voice, anxious to supply an alternative and make that discontent rumble its way off into the distance. At this point he’s feeling so far projected out of his body that it doesn’t — hit right. He isn’t quite sure, but he might not give a single solitary fuck about Gabriel’s feelings at this point. Oh, really, is that where he is now? He’s done something possibly devastating to his relationship with Crowley, and now he’s going to do the same to his boss? No.

_No, Aziraphale. Please, please get your stupid shit together._

“Tell me more,” he says, and if it comes out sounding choked, he can at least pretend it’s the tea. (Warlock was kind enough to discard his smoothie; he absolutely owes the boy a raise, if he isn’t fired today.)

“Well!” Gabriel booms. Aziraphale hadn’t ever really specifically noticed the quiet that lingers among the vines until he had Gabriel here, breaking it. He spares a thought to wonder what kind of vines surround _Le Petit Voile;_ he hasn’t asked. Aziraphale feels suddenly, desperately, longingly, that he really should know. What grapes are these, that will watch his undoing? He should know, after so long. He’s going to interrupt the fruit set: all Aziraphale carries with him is grape shatter, mold and disaster; he’s slipped into those vulnerable spaces, but what comes with him is anathema, dooming a great portion of these tender newborn grapes to rot and oblivion.

He should have known nothing as organic and genuine as Crowley would ever be able to last against something as manufactured as Aziraphale’s life.

“Aziraphale,” Gabriel says, chuckling. “Are you listening?”

“Oh,” he says, ready with a quick response even though he knows Gabriel doesn’t deserve anything. “I’m sorry, Gabriel. Look, Warlock and I have really rearranged our internal schedules to make the best of the area. Forgive me. Repeat yourself?” Bless Warlock for giving him this out. Damn Warlock for not stopping Crowley. Oh, hells, bless and damn it all.

“Yes, sorry! I forgot!” How is everything Gabriel says so strewn with fake cheer? Aziraphale has known this for years, but again, it’s easy to ignore when it isn’t interrupting a life you’ve somehow come to like more than ... more than .. more than many other things, and that’s fair.

“So I am your primary — agent, I guess, manager, boss, I don’t know, there are so many words to describe it, aren’t there, Aziraphale? Ha ha! And Michael might be the second in line, but she reports to a different department, so there isn’t, well, ahem.” Gabriel tugs at his collar to straighten it. “There isn’t any easy way to bypass her opinion in the interest of releasing our book.”

 _Our book._ Oh, heavens, the phrase sounds _slimy_ and ridiculous and yet, it’s correct, that’s what Aziraphale has been sending in: the sort of writing Gabriel finds satisfactory, the kind Aziraphale finds vapid but can easily create. He regrets a great number of things in this long, bitter, thick moment, as if he’s being made to swallow some kind of terrible syrup laced with anise and horror.

“Okay,” he says instead, terribly proud of that single word. “So how does the book have to evolve?”

“Well!” Gabriel’s laugh echoes out into the vines. Aziraphale wonders whether the grapes that happen to blossom and bloom here even bother to set and grow, or if they all end up moving through grape shatter because people are ...too close. How much space does an acre of vines need? How much space does one winery owner need? How many days until — oh, hell, Aziraphale, _focus._

“—so it would be some sort of balance,” Gabriel is saying. “The introductions to each chapter would be written in the language I prefer, of course, since that’s what draws readers in, but then Michael’s approach actually has an advantage, we’ve tracked the statistics in the 26-35 and 36-45 age groups, and they’re less responsive to the sort of marketing I’m used to using, so I guess we _have to_ bow to Michael in this case based on the book you’re writing. I mean. You understand, right, Aziraphale?”

He wishes Gabriel would say his name less. As in, like, never. He knows it’s a power move and he knows why Gabriel does it but at this moment it has literally no effect on him and he just wants to make Gabriel swallow his name and leave. No, _no._ At this point he needs to hang on to this career no matter what, he might have lost — no. _Hells._

“So you want,” he manages to stay, the words stumbling out of his mouth like clumsy kittens. “You want introductions and, let’s say - bookends - around each chapter in your, eh, preferred style, and then entries within it in Michael’s preferred style?” That is, if Aziraphale figures out what to do to suit both of them without having to release the sections that make him feel the most exposed.

And there’s a shot of clarity, through all of the fog and anxiety that has sunk down around him, and it’s almost embarrassing; he’s been writing his own truth into the secret draft of the book for weeks, _months_ now. And he’s being goddamned _stupid_ about it. For the last few weeks Aziraphale has been viewing his previous entries as some sort of - oh - for heaven’s - it was unedited poetry, it was un-rhyming prose, it was an effort in metaphor and simile and description, it was a working exercise. It was nothing but a sketch and a faux pas and it wasn’t, no, it wasn’t at all the truth —

—except that it’s absolutely the truth.

Lord Jesus Christ of the Biggest Resurrected Mess of Aziraphale Z. Fell’s entire, desperate, relentless life. He’s always been an idiot - Gabriel won’t let him forget that, certainly - but oh, has he been blind. He’s always been good at that, too, tucking things away into corners and boxes and dark spaces so that everything looks nice and neat and tidy. Functional. Passable. Except this time he’s been so fucking stupid that he may have actually fooled himself. _Great,_ Aziraphale thinks. _That’s precisely how I needed to feel at this moment in time: Dumber._

He has a set of hidden passages that contains the things he wants to say, and he has a set of stupid, inane, strung-out words that say the things he expected Gabriel to want him to say. And they aren’t the same book. They aren’t even close to the same book. They aren’t even two different books; they’re two different _languages._

Aziraphale realizes that the story he’s been writing for himself - the story he continually denies exists; the story he’s been trying to bury — that story is more honest than he’s ever been with anyone in this world. And it’s the story of himself, and Crowley, and ways he’s been changing that he’s far too frightened to even look at.

His heart breaks, just a little.

It’s just a moment, and he lifts a hand palm-out towards Gabriel; for mercy, Gabriel actually stops talking for a moment, and Aziraphale lets his head hang as he realizes how fucking long he’s been lying to himself.

His heart had maybe cracked open this morning, with that vulnerable stunned hurt feeling in Crowley’s eyes, but this is... this is shattering.

And of course he has Gabriel here with his faux-friendly smile and his stupid intrusive eyes and his dumb suit and his everything here. Aziraphale has never felt this angry at Gabriel. He wants to bare his teeth, growl, square his shoulders until he’s scared Gabriel off. He wants to roar like a bear.

But he can’t. For a moment he contemplates it - he has never hated Gabriel more than these brief few seconds - but he can’t. If he loses his place with FTA, he’ll truly have nothing. And worse: he’ll have hurt Crowley _and_ lost his career.

And Aziraphale knows he’s the king of denial - he always has been, somehow - so he takes all of this emotion and very carefully covers it up with a couple mental blankets. If he can’t see it, it won’t exist, not until he’s ready to look at it. This is something he knows how to do. This is one of a very few things he can do with aplomb.

“Sorry,” he tells Gabriel. His voice, at least, is back in equilibrium, even if the rest of him is still somewhat disturbed. “A spot of indigestion, maybe. Do continue.”

Gabriel laughs that terrible laugh. “Must not be used to health food! I’ll set up a subscription for you, deliveries from that bagel place. It’s good for you!”

Aziraphale clenches his jaw. Breathes in, then out. Perfectly still. He can contain this.

“Thank you,” he tells Gabriel, and almost makes it sound genuine. “That’s very kind of you.”

“Anything for our best blogger!” Gabriel’s smile has far too many teeth.

———

They spend an hour or so going over Aziraphale’s proposed outline, the one for the bullshit book. The shit story. The crap cookbook. His brain is pinging all over with anxiety, but Aziraphale manages to keep his hands from shaking. He feels like every movement he makes is carrying far too much weight. He’s dragging himself through molasses. He’s underwater.

Then it’s eleven o’clock and they all tuck up into the ridiculous Benz (Gabriel gets the passenger seat as the guest of honor; Aziraphale catches Warlock changing the interior lighting to a lovely lavender that matches Gabriel’s shirt, and wants to laugh, hysterically) and head off. Gabriel has a list of places he wants to see from Aziraphale’s blog entries, and fortunately, _Ecdyses_ isn’t the first one he mentions.

They start at Rodney Strong, a well-known brand that still manages to make some powerful reserve reds that Aziraphale deeply respects. He gets Gabriel talking to the owner to give himself a moment’s peace: Gabriel of course name-drops himself and FTA in the first five minutes, which has the owner fawning over all three of them, bringing up a number of rare vintages in the hopes of making a good impression.

Unfortunately Gabriel can’t tell good wine from a hole in the ground. He (loudly) declares his favorite is the table red blend - which is utterly bland next to the 2013 Cabernet-Pinot Meritage Aziraphale buys two bottles of - and keeps joking about how the wines all taste “like grapes, get it, Aziraphale?”

He’s _miserable._

His gut’s still roiling with anxiety, he has no idea how to act, and he can’t think about anything other than right now or he’s going to lose it.

———

A text from Warlock: _You okay?_

 _ **I am utterly not okay,**_ Aziraphale responds, watching Gabriel awkwardly flirt with the tasting bar employee at _Red Cove Winery. **But I’ll be fine.**_

_What the fuck are you going to do about Crowley?_

Aziraphale glances up, offended; that certainly isn’t any of Warlock’s business! But when he meets the younger man’s eyes, there’s concern there, as well as a bit of blame Aziraphale’s sure he deserves.

_**I cannot think about that while I’m managing Gabriel.** _

_maybe you should_

_reconsider your priorities_

Warlock won’t meet his eyes after that, and Aziraphale feels it sink down into his stomach, adding to the rest of the rocks it feels like he’s swallowed.

———

“I’m not tasting that.” Gabriel’s shaking his head very emphatically. “You _just said_ it tastes like green pepper.”

“Don’t you like vegetables?” Warlock murmurs, just loud enough to make Aziraphale snort.

“It’s the essence of green pepper,” Aziraphale tries to explain. The friendly lad at _Windsor Oaks_ looks like he wants to roll his eyes, but isn’t. “It isn’t like you’re drinking spaghetti sauce, Gabriel.”

“I will not sully the temple of my mouth with... gross matter.” Gabriel looks highly pleased, having come up with this phrase, and takes another sip of the absolutely average Chardonnay he’s been enjoying. It’s off-dry, which Aziraphale abhors in a Chard, but Gabriel truly has no taste at all.

“Well, I find it delectable,” Aziraphale tells the lad, suddenly seized by the urge to show off a little, to put Gabriel in his place. “This is something you really only get with older vines, the way the soil plays such a deep role in these flavors. Green pepper, dark cherry, and something that’s almost smoke.” He smacks his lips. “Perfection.”

“That sounds horrible,” Gabriel tells him cheerfully. “Some days I have no idea how your blog is so popular!”

“You have a blog?” The lad asks, and then Gabriel’s off again. Aziraphale briefly wonders whether he can get lost in the restroom and just not come out.

———

_**Crowley, my dear, I am so terribly sorry about this morning. I panicked when Gabriel showed up, and it’s as if my brain’s been at a ninety-degree angle ever since.** _

****

**_I did message your phone, but you must not have seen it._ **

****

**_~~I have no idea why I said what I did. I was panicking and those words fell out of my mouth without any conscious decision on my own. I was afraid Gabriel would — would misinterpret our — would think we were, well, ‘fooling around’ for nefarious reasons on one or the other’s part, and~~ _ **

~~**__** ~~ ****

**_I am so terribly sorry. You are my true friend, and very dear to me. Let me make it up to you — dinner tomorrow? I’ll have plenty of awful Gabriel stories I know you’ll enjoy._ **

The messages sit, unread.

———

“What about the place you’re always writing about?” Gabriel asks as Warlock pulls out of the drive. “The one your grumpy friend owns? You’ve made him famous, Aziraphale, I’d like to take a look.”

“They aren’t open today, sadly,” Aziraphale says. He has no idea what day of the week it is any more. Is it July? August? His brain has settled into a tense space that feels like the desperate humming of three dozen bees trapped within his skull.

“Oh, because of the water main break!” Gabriel looks pleased for remembering. “That’s a shame. I’ll have to see if I can come up some other time.”

“Please tell me before you do,” Aziraphale says quickly. “So that I can have a day planned out for you.”

Gabriel hums in response. Warlock must have an idea of their next destination, for he’s already turning down some road Aziraphale doesn’t recognize. “You know, Aziraphale, when he walked into the kitchen like that - no shirt! You really are on a completely different schedule! - for a second I thought there was something ...untoward. Going on.”

It’s not a question, except that it is. Aziraphale’s already this deep. “No, nothing of the sort. Just a ...kind gesture. To someone in. Need.”

Gabriel laughs brightly. “I know! The moment after I thought it, I remembered. This is Aziraphale! He isn’t anything like that! There’s no possible way he’d be involved with someone like ... _that._ ”

Aziraphale wishes Gabriel wouldn’t speak so many exclamation points. It’s terribly exhausting. And unfair — Aziraphale isn’t conventionally attractive, sure, but what Gabriel doesn’t know about the successful liaisons he’s had over the years he’s worked for FTA certainly won’t hurt him. He tries to tell himself that Gabriel’s just being Gabriel, but it still makes him feel small, terribly fat, and not worth very much.

Warlock glances over his shoulder to give Aziraphale a long look he’s quite afraid he can’t read.

———

His messages have been read, but Crowley hasn’t responded.

_**My dear. I realize I’ve hurt you. You won’t see us today, don’t worry.** _

****

**_I’d like to come over tomorrow and talk about this, but I won’t unless I’m invited. If you need space, you shall have it._ **

****

**_Please answer me, at least. Are you alright?_ **

———

They end up at the Kendall-Jackson estate, because Gabriel’s really excited about name-dropping there. They sit down for dinner in the nicer establishment, and Aziraphale’s _quite ready_ for some comfort food. Gabriel, of course, orders some kind of power-something-salad; Aziraphale gets ravioli in a cream sauce. Warlock, bless his heart, gets a cheeseburger.

“I like what I like,” he tells Gabriel with an off handed shrug.

Luckily the general manager of the establishment is in fact on the grounds, and he comes out to greet Gabriel like they’re old friends, with a bottle of Merlot that’s decent enough. Gabriel ignores them completely, which suits both Aziraphale and Warlock fine.

“I’m so glad this is almost over,” Aziraphale whispers to his assistant.

“Me too.” Warlock shudders. “This has not been a pleasant day.”

“My dear boy,” Aziraphale says, his throat tightening as he says it. “That’s an understatement.”

He works his way through the pasta. The ravioli itself is overcooked, but it’s stuffed with this mixture of ricotta, mushroom, and spinach, so Aziraphale is willing to forgive its flaws. The cream sauce is balanced with lemon and white wine just enough to make its density balance between heavy and light, and there’s enough steamed asparagus mixed in that Aziraphale can brandish it on a fork any time Gabriel starts to mumble about health food with his mouth full of kale.

Conversation seems to rotate like a plate balanced on a pole: rather terribly and somewhat dangerously. Gabriel careens between flattering the general manager, throwing very generic insults at Aziraphale, and praising the garbanzo beans in his salad as if curry is a new spice he’s never had before. It’s very disturbing. Aziraphale, for his own part, has made himself somewhat sick by spooning the cream sauce into his mouth any time Gabriel isn’t looking — and the latest Pinot Noir is terribly unbalanced which doesn’t at all help. Plus, he orders the tiramisu, which is incredibly rich and has far too many ladyfingers. By the end of the meal, Aziraphale’s feeling regrettably overfull and yet incredibly unsatisfied. It’s an awful combination he absolutely detests, and it makes him far less than professional as Gabriel cheerfully shakes both their hands and gets back into his ridiculous rental car to drive that terrible five-hour drive back to Los Angeles.

Aziraphale’s so relieved to have the air clear that he just stumbles his way back into the house, grabs the first bottle of wine he finds, and heads towards his bathtub. He opens all of the windows, because the house feels stagnant and stuffy, and he needs to be able to breathe freely—

Running the bath is a method. It’s a process Aziraphale tells himself to keep to: a ritual he can focus on. Run the water until it’s the perfect temperature; plug the bath. Sort through the number of salts and bubbles and oils; add as necessary. Feeling unnaturally full, Aziraphale chooses refreshing spices and scents: evergreen; cardamom; petrichor. The only oil he adds is a bit of something scented like gardenias, because it’s like a fresh breath of air when he sniffs the bottle. He lets it all bubble through as the bath fills, the fresh breeze filtering through the windows. The scent is perfectly lovely, and Aziraphale - stripped down to nothing; wrapped in his robe, the same way this terrible morning started - closes his eyes to breathe.

 _The woods; the scent of rain. Flowers and evergreens._ It’s like he’s trying to roll time back to his dream this morning: the last moment when everything was okay.

The fresh air of California’s nights has been nothing but lovely. The summer temperatures in Los Angeles may not necessarily spike as high - although they do somewhat - but LA’s nights rarely cool below 70F. Wine country has been nothing but glorious in that aspect; while temperatures vary from nook to cranny, certainly, wherever _Le Petit Voile_ stands manages to get nearly into the low fifties in the evening, even here in July. It’s Aziraphale’s favorite setting; a cool night when he’s surrounded by warmth. He tells himself he deserves this, especially after such a long and stupid day.

The soothing hiss against his skin as he sinks into the bath is decadent, nearly to excess. Aziraphale’s almost overwhelmed at the feeling. He already feels overfull and underdrunk; the heat just stimulates all the wrong nerves. He can’t decide whether he’s comfortable or uncomfortable. He makes up his mind to only focus on the good feelings, although he can still feel an odd sort of bloat around his edges.

Aziraphale settles himself into the warm bath. He wants it to feel decadent and delicious and it really kind of just feels as if he’s stewing himself. Nevertheless, he leans back against the cushion, breathes in deeply, and dials Crowley.

The call goes to voicemail three times in a row.

Oh. Well.

Aziraphale breathes in the scent of pine trees and breathes out the scent of rain. He tries to focus on that. He should probably think back, recall everything that has happened, but — his heart is still pounding from Gabriel’s visit, for Heaven’s sake. He isn’t even sure his _career_ is safe, yet.

It’s safe. It must be. He can temper the bullshit book to be whatever Gabriel and Michael need. He has plenty of words. He’s perfectly capable of spouting off more trash if that’s what it takes. He doesn’t —

—he doesn’t want to think about the book, because then he has to turn his head back to all of the other things he’s been writing. The tender little snippets, the snarky passages; metaphors that roll over the page to the next one, stretched to the point of tension where all the pieces align and it becomes clear and sparkling like glass. The real story he’s been writing.

The story that’s broken his heart.

His fingers have dialed Crowley again. He isn’t really sure why he expects anything else but the voice message. _You’ve reached Anthony Crowley. You know what to do; do it with style._

Aziraphale has never realized how much he loves the way Crowley says his own name. _An-t-ony,_ the delicate _t_ catching between his teeth, the end coming out on that wry smile Aziraphale can picture.

“My dear,” he starts, and then he’s shaking in the tub as everything hits him, and he has to hang up.

The bath doesn’t have any comfort left to offer anymore. His hands unsteady, Aziraphale carefully lifts himself out.

———

_It can’t really be that bad, can it?_

_Yes, it was stupid. But it can’t really be the end, right? It’s a misunderstanding. It was a slip of the tongue. I was panicked, dear boy; I wasn’t thinking. You know how much Gabriel upsets me._

_Except that you don’t, really. You’ve never met Gabriel. You’ve never watched him distinctly and succinctly unravel every piece of shredded self-worth I’ve managed to knit together; you’ve never had to see him poke at the holes and rip at the mistakes. You can’t understand the debt I’m in with him: this house, this trip, my entire career rides on the opinion of a man who likes semi-dry Chardonnay. The Lord Herself wept._

_Of course you’re my friend. You’re more than my friend. You’ve been the — the keys, the catalyst: you’re the initiator, the accelerator, the combustion chamber. You’re most of what has shot me over this valley like an arrow. I’m afraid you’re embedded in my heart, my dear Crowley, grown in there like the vines you tend._

_And I’m afraid. Because if I have to choose between you and my career, how can I choose otherwise? I’ve sacrificed so much to get here, and they deserve to have my best work; I need to give it my best effort. I can’t even think about what I’ve lost — no, not lost; willingly given up. My freedom to write what I like, to say what I think and publish my own opinions. The rights to my work and my own blog, now peppered with trigger words or whatever on earth Warlock calls them; the ability to choose where I go and what I write about._

_I’ve even lost my own voice. Here’s the secret document, this hidden journal that reflects the truth. I keep it tucked into corners, one clear note among so many false ones. It isn’t that the other song isn’t a nice one, but it isn’t mine, bellowed from my gut and echoing through every page._

_I don’t know why I didn’t just wake you. It wasn’t that you looked so lovely - although you did - and it wasn’t that you needed your sleep - though that might be true - and I don’t know why I thought I could manage this without you ever having to know. Was I trying to keep you away to protect you? To keep you from seeing the worthless ruins Gabriel always makes of me? Was I hoping you’d sleep through it all; me a coward, never having to face the choice?_

_Why on earth did I not take the time to wake you and explain?_

_(I know; I know. Hindsight is a curse.)_

_It can’t be that bad. You must understand: what if you had to choose between this tenuous thing you have with me and your land, your vines? There’s no question, is there? We’ve both worked so hard and suffered so much. You must understand where I’m coming from, dear boy. I’m sure you will._

_So why does my heart still feel heavy? Why does my mouth taste of anxiety? My hands are still shaking every second that they aren’t typing; it’s as if they know these words have to be laid down onto the screen. My fingers are working nearly independently of my own brain. My body must have something to say that it can’t let my brain see._

_The truth is, my darling, that I’m quite worthless without my career. Without my blog, without the detestable Gabriel behind me. He’s made that quite clear to me over the last few years. He makes the rules, and I follow them, or I lose everything I’ve gained._

_And it isn’t so hard. Mostly._

_You must feel terribly hurt. I’m hoping that you understand it was the only thing that I could do. For both of us! If Gabriel suspected anything, he could ruin your name, negate all of the good business that’s come your way! He would think there was something nefarious — he already thinks me worthless and stupid; it wouldn’t be hard for him to assume you were - with me - for better reviews, or publicity, or the business. He knows I’m not much of a catch, and you’re so — you, Crowley._

_Lord, when I saw you this morning, with that brilliant tangle of hair shining like jewels in the light of the kitchen, wearing my pajamas - you know, I’m not sure I’ve ever seen you in anything other than blacks and greys - my heart skipped multiple beats. For a minute, in my head, you were mine, and there was nothing between us, and this was my life: my real life, mornings where you stumble out shirtless into my arms and grumble at the coffee machine, where I’ve no pressing deadlines and no archnemesis arseholes in my kitchen and nothing to do but tangle my fingers into your curls and press kisses into your eyelids until they open._

_My darling, I don’t think I’ve ever wanted anything so badly in my life as I did in that moment. How unrealistic! How utterly romantic, in the sense that it’s really nothing but a dream, isn’t it?_

_I have no idea of your expectations, but I feel like I’ve certainly, obviously, missed them by a mile. Just like I always do: never good enough to succeed on my own. I wouldn’t say I ruin things; no, I fail them instead._

_As I’ve failed you, I fear. I can hope that this is understandable: that this is a white lie you’ll accept; that my actions, while hurtful, can be forgiven. But I know the truth and that’s why I’m writing this rather than yelling it through your window._

_I’ve seen your vulnerability; I’ve held it in my hands. I’ve held my breath as you opened yourself to me; I’ve gazed into your eyes and fallen into you, my dear, more than you’ll ever know._

_And not only have I not paid you back in the same coin, but I’ve taken advantage of you. I’ve thrown you under the bus for my own safety. I’m no better than those brutes who forced you out of your first career, so long ago._

_In fact I think I’m worse, because I think I could very easily be in love with you, if I let myself. And that’s the most terrifying part of it: were I not such a coward, were I not so blocked in, were I not so dependent on the parts of my career that I hate... Excuses. So many excuses._

_I shan’t say it again. It makes my heart clench, at all the good things I haven’t earned in this life; all the things I might have had were I just a little bit better. If I hadn’t continued to fail._

_I want to pretend that you’ll understand and forgive me and maybe I’ll bring you beautiful flowers and you’ll let me braid your hair, and we can kiss under the stars, out in the vines your hands have so lovingly tended. I want to pretend those hands still have space for me. I want to pretend this is all a mistake, that I’m blowing all of it out of proportion; as if you’ll call me back, desperation in your voice, and I’ll drive over at midnight and we’ll drink from the bottle and eat cheese with our fingers and then make sweet love on your terrible couch. I want to pretend we can be mended, that you’ll drive me to your favorite places in that car of yours, that I’ll pack picnic baskets and feed you strawberries and you’ll tumble me over in the flowers and kiss me until I cannot breathe anything other but the scent of you. I want so badly to pretend that these things might be true._

_I want to live in any other world where they might be; I want to be any other version of myself if it’s a version that can wake up with you in my arms and fade back into the comfort of sleep without losing you._

_But I have been around a while, and I am smarter than I let on, and I know the truth._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As a side note, I've got some stuff going on [here](https://seventhe.dreamwidth.org/434272.html) if you wanted to check it out and maybe help me out a bit!
> 
> Also, just a note, based on comments from last chapter: readers can comment with anything they want! This story isn't open for criticism at this time, but differing opinions are always welcome. Just remember you're posting in a public forum; I'm not going to moderate my comments. I have a hard enough time replying to them! But there's no need to delete things because of disagreements. I'll reply with my own thoughts in my own time. :)
> 
> SPEAKING OF COMMENTS........... :) :) *expectant smile and grabby hands*


	14. When The Cork Crumbles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He isn’t ready to talk about it yet. He hasn’t even _processed_ it all yet. He has to think about it before he can process, and he has to process before he can talk. And right now his thoughts are stuck on giant robots and kaiju from under the sea, thank you _very_ much, Newt. (It’s a genuine thank-you. Crowley needs to be taken out of his own brain sometimes.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HAPPY WEEKEND HERE U GO ITS 11000 WORDS OF EMOTION
> 
> So, this is Crowley's chapter, and we're going to feel it. General content warnings here just include the general sadness of emotional rejection; nothing specific I think I need to call out like last chapter. And Crowley has a _lot_ to work through, here, but (in my opinion anyway) it ends on a hopeful note. _so don't kill me._
> 
> I swear to fuck as we go on chapters won't continue to be this dang long it's just that there is a LOT happening. Everything happens so much.
> 
> (for the reader who had commented about the "cornering" scene in Crowley's workplace in Ch12, I hope a few pieces of this chapter settle it for you.)
> 
> gosh, I adore ALL of you. your reactions are wonderful, your comments brilliant, and I enthuse like Crowley and treasure them like Aziraphale. <3
> 
> I adore

Anathema has a nice floor.

Crowley knows this because he’s lying on it right now. He knows it’s the original hardwood because Anathema and Newt took off for a week to refinish it back when they got the cottage, but that doesn’t really matter. It’s hard. A nice warm brown. A good floor for lying on.

He’s curled up in what Anathema might call the fetal position, in front of the slightly-worn loveseat. It gives him a great view of the fireplace, which is unfortunate, since it’s summer in California. He’s been here for a while. At least three of their cats have come to investigate him; Crowley has trouble telling them apart. He can’t even remember how many cats they have. Probably like a dozen.

One of them walks past; it’s grey, and distinctly ignores Crowley. Do they have more than one grey cat? He thinks so. Maybe.

Newt lowers himself to the floor, then awkwardly lowers himself until he’s lying on the floor looking at Crowley. He looks incredibly uncomfortable. Crowley almost feels like laughing.

“Don’t want to talk,” he says. Newt and Anathema are pretty good at telling when he’s refusing because he wants to be prodded and when he’s refusing because he’s absolutely done. Today is the latter.

“Good.” Newt shivers. “Frankly, I don’t want to talk about it either.”

Newt’s a good guy. As much as Crowley has to consider Anathema his best friend, he often just lumps Newt in there as part of Anathema, because that’s how they work. Newt, however, deserves some credit on his own for being a real decent guy — in a case where _decent_ is actually a real compliment, because Crowley means it. “Any brilliant suggestions, then?”

“Well.” Newt shifts on the floor. He still looks ridiculously awkward. “Thought we might do what my mum always did when I got —” Thankfully, Newt doesn’t say _dumped,_ although Crowley can hear it in the air.

“And what’s that? Hot chocolate? Ice cream?” He sounds more bitter than he intended, but those kinds of things don’t ever make him feel better. Besides, he didn’t actually get - you know - dumped. He got his heart crushed, which is much different.

“Nah.” Newt grins. “We tip the couch and make a giant pillow fort, and watch guilty pleasure movies all day.”

To Crowley’s surprise, it’s actually kind of fun. They strip the cushions from the couch and tip it to the front so that it makes a sort of cave, then use the cushions to build up walls that will hold up the blankets Newt gathers to drape over their heads. Soon they’re both in the fort: two grown men lying on their bellies, propped up on spare pillows, with a bowl of plain old trashy microwave butter popcorn between them. Crowley didn’t expect it to make him feel better, but it kind of does, doing something this ridiculous.

“Right,” says Newt, grabbing the controller. “Pacific Rim or Jurassic Park?”

“What?” Crowley turns to look at him, mouth full of popcorn, deeply offended. “Both, you absolute troll.”

———

They’re still there in the fort by the time Anathema comes home from work; Pacific Rim is three-quarters of the way through, and Crowley’s arguing with Newt over how gay the scientists are for each other while they throw popcorn at the brown cat, who thinks it’s a toy. (Cats? He still isn’t sure how many there are and how many are brown.) It’s been a pleasantly distracting few hours, and he appreciates it; it’s better than stewing on his floor at home. That’s why he’s here; Crowley had gone home yesterday, been immediately thrown into some kind of fugue state, and had come out of it parked in Anathema’s driveway with four bottles of wine in the back of the Bentley. Luckily, they hadn’t asked too many questions.

He isn’t ready to talk about it yet. He hasn’t even _processed_ it all yet. He has to think about it before he can process, and he has to process before he can talk. And right now his thoughts are stuck on giant robots and kaiju from under the sea, thank you _very_ much, Newt. (It’s a genuine thank-you. Crowley needs to be taken out of his own brain sometimes.)

“Oh,” she says as she walks into the living room, discarding her coat onto a chair and tossing her shoes into a corner. “Honestly, I should have predicted this. Apparently the Pulsifer method of dealing with anything is building something ridiculous out of furniture.”

Newt elbows Crowley and grins. “I’ve told her if I decide to propose, she’s going to have to make her way through a tower of chairs to find it.”

Anathema only laughs, and Crowley’s suddenly curious, because it’s a distraction from his own life. “What’s this if?”

“Well, marriage is a bit silly,” Anathema says, coming to crouch down on the floor beside Newt. She runs a hand through his hair and it’s that, the casualness of the gesture, the way Anathema’s fingers tangle through Newt’s silly haircut with no conscious direction, that guts him to the core. He’s reminded of Aziraphale’s fingers passing through his hair at some point the previous night; Crowley had only woken up enough to register that it was happening before falling back into the depths of sleep, curled up into Aziraphale like his body was a safe space.

Ha. As if.

Anathema must see him cringe because she continues, her voice deliberately light. “I mean, we already live together, work together, own a house together. Why do we need some fancy piece of paper to say what we already have?”

“And they’re expensive,” Newt adds, his mouth twisting. “And I look terrible in a tux. And I’d trip over myself somehow.”

This is again getting back to things Crowley doesn’t want to talk about, so he gestures back at the robots. “Nat, your vote. Scientists are gay lovers, yes or no?”

“Oh, yes, too easy,” she says, settling in against the couch. “If you want to talk about something this movie did that’s excellent, let’s talk about Mako.”

“There’s still really only one lady in the whole film,” says Newt, and then they’re off, bickering at each other.

Crowley turns back to the movie and settles his chin back in on the pillow wrapped in his arms. His entire body is still throbbing like a wound, although at least it isn’t still a fresh stab in his fucking chest. Every time he thinks back to yesterday, he—

—he twists, his heart wrenching itself again. It’s like a strained muscle; if he doesn’t move anything, it doesn’t hurt, but the second he forgets it’s the same goddamned shooting pain as it was when it first—

—no. He’s not ready. He needs more popcorn and for Anathema to shut up about the male gaze before he misses his favorite gay scientist scene.

———

“The thing is,” Crowley tells the old vines. They’ve gracefully moved into what might be the best fruit set in years, and while he’s still worried about the timing compared to the other grapes, he’s willing to let the Zin do whatever it likes as long as it likes continuing to make wine. “The thing is that I shouldn’t even be _mad,_ right?”

The vines aren’t answering. That’s fine, though; it’s twilight, and cooling down. Crowley’s walking the rows in bare feet, wearing a loose grey tank top and little black linen shorts. His hair is up because he can’t have it down around his shoulders without remembering the way Aziraphale had said, just so easily...

“Fuck,” Crowley says, out loud. “I mean, I’m mad. I can admit that. Very mad. Transcendentally fucking angry.” Where by angry he means _sore_ and by mad he means _hurt._

The vines do nothing. Crowley runs his fingers along them, moving his electric lantern so that he can check in on the fruit. Perfect tiny little green globules. Every year it surprises him that _his_ work, his wine, his bottles all come from these tiny unappetizing little green spheres, some with wonky buds still at the ends. He touches the joins where the leaves meet the stem; pinches at the edge of a leaf, feeling the texture and the moisture. They’re a bit dry, right now, but Crowley thinks they’re past the risk of grape shatter at least; besides, he can’t make it rain. He really doesn’t want to have to dig out the old irrigation rig from the equipment shed. It leaks, and it’s rusty, and a right pain in the arse.

He stops. He’s clutching the lantern in one hand and his other hand is trembling, fingertips sitting on the backbone of a vine.

“He didn’t _have_ to,” Crowley tells the vines angrily. “He could have said - anything - could have even used the same — but he fucking had to — just like it was easy. Just like it was _true._ ”

_He isn’t my friend,_ says Aziraphale in his memories. _We barely know each other._ As if they hadn’t been pressed, skin to skin, just a few hours earlier; as if Crowley hadn’t woken up in Aziraphale’s bed, sated and slow and relaxed for one bloody time in his life.

He wants to cry. He hasn’t yet; the fugue state has been the worst of it, so far, and there were no tears that he remembers. And well, no, Crowley _doesn’t_ want to cry, he wants to march up there and smack Aziraphale in the face, and then punch that Gabriel in the face probably twice, and then he wants to yell for so long that this fucking hole in his chest finally fills up with whatever bullshit it needs to just stop fucking _gaping._

He wants to tear these grapes off the vine, this little bit of fruit set. He wants to burn them in some little chalice of Anathema’s, until Aziraphale wants him again. He wants to erase that entire morning from himself.

“Fuck!” It echoes over the vineyard and Crowley realizes he’s pulling at his hair with one hand; there’s a leaf in his palm, too, and his fingers have torn through its delicate fabric. His hair’s a bit sticky with it. God, his throat is choked up now, and he really doesn’t want to lose it here.

It’s fucking unfair. Because he _knows_ why Aziraphale did it. Look, Crowley’s no stranger to the signs of panic (although, sure, it manifests differently from person to person) and he knows Aziraphale well enough to know he’s never seen that particular look on his face before. And he knows - mostly - that Aziraphale didn’t really mean it, that it was the kind of thing you blurt out to cover your own ass. Crowley knows this all, logically.

(Or, he mostly knows it. He isn’t going to deny that dark ribbon of unease running through his gut, swimming through his intestines, the one that tells him Aziraphale has never been as committed to this thing as Crowley has; the one that says Crowley’s been far more open and vulnerable, and Aziraphale’s intentions could actually crush him, if the other man only wanted to.)

But what hurts the most was that it had been so — unnecessary. So fucking _stupid._ Why didn’t Aziraphale wake him the minute Gabriel showed up? Why didn’t he just say they’d been drinking, or Crowley was there for whatever reason — any other reason.

Does Aziraphale not _trust_ him? Does Aziraphale think there’s any kind of situation - no matter how dire - where Crowley _wouldn’t_ have his back? Was he just hoping to, like, sweep Crowley under the rug? Hoping Crowley would _sleep_ through it all?

Oh. There’s a tear. Just one.

“If you tell anyone,” Crowley growls over his shoulder, wiping the heel of his palm angrily over his face, “you will become _compost._ I will feed your ashes to the _tomatoes._ ”

———

He doesn’t go into the tasting room that day either. Anathema and Newt are there, and Adam’s going to come back to his house in a little bit so that they can play _Final Fantasy XIV_ for a while. Crowley isn’t really great at the game, but he likes it enough to be a good distraction.

Right now he’s strewn across his couch - yes, the couch where they had - and staring at his phone. Five missed calls from Aziraphale, now. A few new texts that Crowley had, in fact, marked as read without reading. He can’t bring himself to look.

Aziraphale has said _**sorry.**_ He has said, _**Of course you’re my friend.**_

Aziraphale is, maybe, not quite aware of what he’s ruined.

It isn’t that Crowley isn’t still as ridiculously besotted with the idiot as ever. And it isn’t that he doesn’t understand why Aziraphale reacted in that stupid way. It isn’t even that it hurt, because Crowley knows - oh, does he know from _experience_ \- that hurt will fade and eventually be forgiven.

But not forgotten. What Aziraphale’s really broken here is ...well, Crowley’s heart, sure, but that isn’t worth much. It’s pretty cracked anyway, all beat up and battle-scarred, and Crowley had gone into this full on knowing that there probably wouldn’t be a real happy ending in store.

But the loss is the way Crowley has ... _trusted_ Aziraphale? He isn’t even sure if that’s the right word. He’d thought they were on the same page; even if it all ends in disaster, Crowley had thought they were at least agreeing to do the middle bits together.

He isn’t going to forget waking up sated and vulnerable and being shoved away, being told that it’s best if he just heads home. Because that’s really what it was: a way to get rid of him.

Aziraphale could have done one of a nearly unlimited number of things that wouldn’t have hurt as much. He could have asked Crowley to stay in bed for a few minutes while he went to investigate. He could have pretended to be ill and sent Gabriel off. Hell, he could have sent Warlock in to let Crowley know what to do. Even a fucking _wink_ across the kitchen when he so easily said _He’s not my friend_ to let Crowley know they were on the same side, here, their own little side.

But Aziraphale had looked at him as if he were - terrified? embarrassed? regretful? - and then hadn’t looked back. He’d looked to Gabriel, to see if he had to double down on the message somewhat.

He’s not crying. His eyes are maybe wet, but he’s not fucking crying.

———

He and Adam are about a half hour into the game - which is about the time Crowley remembers how all of his controls work - when Adam clears his throat at his laptop and says, “Hey, can I ask you something?”

God damnit. “As long as it isn’t about — him,” Crowley says. He’s just gotten his fucking rotation under control and now Adam’s going to distract him and he’s going to step in the stupid fire again. (Adam, of course, plays a healer, mostly so that he can lord it over Crowley when he dies. Which is often.)

“No, it isn’t,” Adam says, and a weight lifts off of Crowley’s shoulders. He manages to land a spell right on the ugly boss’s nose, and cackles a bit.

“Your loans,” Adam starts, and Crowley groans out loud. Probably a little dramatically. “Have you ever thought about, like... moving them elsewhere?”

Crowley executes a particularly complicated pattern and watches as the little minions on his television die a fiery death. “Of course I have.” He snorts. “I’m not stupid. Problem is, I don’t have the capital on hand to transfer that much to some other lender. They’ll do it free for, like, smaller credit card bills and all that. But for the amounts I’ve got on my back?” His chuckle is pretty dark. “Yeah, they want to see a down payment before they’ll transfer that kind of thing. Or at least, Hell does.”

“Hm.” Adam’s silent for a bit as they annihilate the boss and exit the dungeon. Crowley immediately goes to try on the new gear that dropped. His character is a gigantic dragon lady, and he’s made her look as scale-y and snakey as he possibly can, and he loves her. Her name is Ashtoreth and she is a badass.

As they head back into the nearby town to finish the fetch quest portion, Adam clears his throat again. “So if you had some capital, you could move the loans somewhere else?”

“Yeah,” Crowley replies, deadpan. “And if I had more capital I could pay off the loans entirely. And If I were a millionaire I’d plant the rest of those three acres. Plans are great, Young, but I can’t exactly plan to find a billion dollars in a dumpster.”

Ashtoreth looks great in her new gear. Crowley’s absolutely just thinking of that. He dyes it red, so that her scaly black markings stand out better.

“Crowley, look,” says Adam, and his character stops moving. Reluctantly, Crowley glances up.

Adam looks weirdly nervous. It isn’t a look he sees on Adam all that often, really; Adam’s so self-sure that his looking anxious always makes Crowley anxious as well. “Oh, for fuck’s sake, spit it out.”

“The thing is,” Adam starts, and then he just sighs. “The thing is that you could have some capital, if you really wanted to make a change. I wasn’t going to say anything, and I realize that _right now_ is a really shitty time to bring something up—”

“What’s wrong with now?” Crowley hisses, because he’d rather be a bit mean than emotionally vulnerable with poor decision-making skills.

“Alright, fine,” Adam says, like he’s calling Crowley’s bluff. “Look, we want to invest in this place. Capital, if that’s the term. We want to buy out your loans.”

“What the fuck,” Crowley says, caught entirely off guard. “Who’s we?”

“It started with me and Anathema talking,” Adam tells him. It’s like a floodgate has opened. “But then I talked to The Them, and Anathema talked to Newt, and as it turns out, we have a pretty hefty sum that Wensleydale says should be enough to counterbalance the cost of moving to a different firm. And, um. Pay off a third of it. If not more.”

“What the fuck,” Crowley repeats. He feels like his head is spinning. “Why on earth would you do that. It’s your money.”

“Yes,” Adam says, as if Crowley’s an idiot child. Maybe he is. “Then it would be our money. Our loans. And...” This part trails off, and Adam looks nervous again. “Our. Winery?”

“What,” Crowley says, trying it with extra emphasis this time. “The. Fuck.”

“We want to invest.” Adam squares his shoulders and now it’s like he’s delivering a speech he might have practiced in the mirror. Or in front of Pepper, Crowley thinks, shuddering. “Look, we’ve been here long enough and we like it well enough to know, _yes Crowley,_ we’re sure. You can ask Anathema if you like, but I know for a fact she and Newt are just waiting for the point that they can put some money into this place and become partners. Nat breathes these vines, you know that, and Newt, well, he breathes Anathema, same thing, right?”

“Uh,” Crowley says. He’s proud that his brain has been able to summon even that syllable. “Sure?”

“And look,” Adam continues, wiping his curly mess of bangs off his forehead. “The Them have a couple clients we’d be perfectly happy to ditch. We like it here, and this job is what feels like home. We’d like to operate out of here and only take a few appointments as we need to.” He chuckles, weakly. “You’ve already got Brian on the payroll. What’s a few more?”

“Uh,” Crowley manages. “Um.”

Adam seems to realize that the rest of Crowley’s brain has retreated back into his skull like a turtle hiding in its shell. “There is no need for a decision any time soon,” he announces, like Crowley’s going to be able to just forget about this and go back to Ashtoreth. “Or even a discussion. Just, you know. Think about it?”

“I mean,” Crowley stammers at this point. “Yeah. It — sure. Of — yep.” He doesn’t think he’s managed a full sentence since Adam started talking, unless _what the fuck_ counts as a sentence.

The silence that falls between them is decidedly not comfortable. It isn’t _uncomfortable,_ because it’s Adam, but it’s kind of thick and a bit awkward.

“Do you want to,” Adam says, gesturing back at the telly, and Crowley gasps out, _“Yes, please.”_

And then as Adam’s character heads off the screen and into the portal, Crowley actually manages to say, “Hey, Adam. Thanks for ... telling me.”

Adam looks over at him. He’s doing that million-yard stare thing he does where Crowley feels like Adam’s looking into his skull, but his smile goes crooked, a genuine gesture of affection. “Of course. Talk to Anathema about it, then think some more. It’s an offer.”

Crowley digests this, then says decisively, “Yeah, I’ll think about it, but only if we stop talking about it right now.”

“Done,” says Adam, with more than a hint of relief.

———

It’s July, and hints of veraison are actually starting to show; the green globules on the Chardonnay are looking a little translucent, and the Pinot for Ruth won’t be that far behind, which is interesting. Veraison is Crowley’s favorite - or, as Anathema calls it, the stage he hates the least - and it’s all about the aesthetic. The grapes start to darken and change color, and he can see the progress - almost daily - as they slowly but surely mature on the vine.

It’s deeply satisfying and there’s something in his chest that’s _yearning_ for it, this year. He wants _something_ to resolve itself, and he doesn’t care what it is; he needs to feel that completion, settle some of this anxiety. Crowley right now feels like a bunch of vibrating problems stuffed into a red tee and cut-offs. He needs something to calm down.

Of course he does. This year’s been different. And it’s because of Aziraphale.

It’s because Crowley went and tore open his stupid heart, took him back into the vines to tend and temper, took him out into the old Zinfandel and told him a fucking story only three or four other people know. It’s because Crowley wants, and he admitted that he wants, and so now the world’s just gonna fuck it up for him.

The only second chance he ever got was this stupid fucking winery and he knows, he knows now that there’s no Her that’s gonna step in and save him this time.

Oh, and here he is, crying in the fucking Petite Sirah. Here it comes. Of course it’s the godsbefucked Petite Sirah, where Aziraphale first put his soft beautiful hands on Crowley’s vine. Where he tasted a shoot; where he tasted Crowley.

His breath catches in his throat and the sob that follows it is rough, raw, ragged.

Jesus. His chest hurts like he’s been punched and he’s crouched down on his knees in the dirt, even though he knows nobody can see him anyway, and he’s allowed to feel this. He’s allowed to be hurt. He’s sobbing so hard he can barely breathe.

It’s fucking stupid and Crowley hates himself for being like this. It isn’t the end of everything, for a relationship; people fuck up, and they talk, and they work through it. Except that he and Aziraphale don’t have the time to do so (or, says the little dark voice inside his head, don’t _want_ to do so, in Aziraphale’s case), and it doesn’t fucking matter because it’s already July and Aziraphale leaves in September to go back to his big happy life in Los Angeles.

He’s so goddamn stupid, Crowley tells himself, as he starts wiping at his face. He hasn’t stopped heaving with sobs yet, but the tears have run down his face and into the soil and he doesn’t want any of this to touch his vines. No more than it already has, of course, but what’s done is done.

It shouldn’t be a big deal to be denied. Aziraphale will explain it, and Crowley will understand it, and maybe they’ll go on seeing each other and drinking and maybe even fooling around.

But it _hurt_ that Aziraphale had made that decision for them, without Crowley - even with Crowley _in his bed -_ and then had slapped Crowley in the face with it the morning after something magical and vulnerable.

And for the rest of the summer, Crowley’s going to spend every minute with Aziraphale wondering when it’s going to happen again. He’ll be preparing for it, so that next time, maybe it won’t hurt so much.

———

Crowley walks in the door at Anathema’s and realizes they haven’t put the furniture back in place yet. In fact, the walls of the little fort have been fortified with more cushions, and there’s what appears to be a hastily made pirate flag stuck into the side of the couch. He can’t decide whether or not they left it for him or whether or not he appreciates it.

“You better not be having sex in there,” he calls as he kicks off his boots.

“We’re in the kitchen,” Anathema calls back.

“You’d better not be having sex in the kitchen,” Crowley warns them as he wanders through the dining room, and by the time he gets to the kitchen door they’ve of course arranged themselves up against the wall. Newt has a leg up around Anathema’s waist: points for flexibility.

“I hate you,” Crowley tells them.

“I made punch,” Anathema says cheerfully, straightening out her clothes. She turns to grab a glass off of the counter and carefully ladles something orange into it. The pink on her cheeks tells Crowley they’ve been sampling the punch already.

He takes a sip. “Wow,” he says, almost involuntarily. He can taste gin, probably vodka, a splash of orange juice? Peach schnapps? “How much of this is booze, Anathema?”

“I’m not telling,” she says with a giggle. “Enough.”

Crowley shrugs. It’s nice, actually, kind of refreshing. There’s something sparkling in it too, some seltzer or club soda or whatever, that keeps it from being sweet.

Newt also made panini sandwiches and cookies, and Crowley helps to carry it all back to the fort. It’s been expanded, too, so that Anathema can wiggle in between Crowley and Newt without the feeling of being packed in like a sardine.

“Nice flag,” Crowley drawls.

“Newt thought it was cute,” Anathema says, but she’s the one who blushes. Crowley takes another look. For a self-proclaimed occultist, Anathema really is pants at drawing.

“What’s your flavor tonight?” Newt asks, loading up another one of their endless show apps.

Crowley likes clever movies with lots of destruction, solid characters, and actual dialogue that sounds like something a person would say. He’s a big fan of James Bond, but he isn’t really in the mood for the easy romances they always include. (He can’t _wait_ for the first gay Bond. He kind of wants to _be_ the first gay Bond.) But nothing’s coming to mind, really. His brain has been in a very gentle state of mostly-off ever since his breakdown in the Petite Sirah. It’s a low grey hum and it’s very nice because it really feels like all Crowley can manage at the moment.

He’s quiet long enough Anathema takes charge. Their normal way of deciding things - where to go for lunch, what to serve at the cafe, and so on - is for one of them to provide three options, and the other has to pick one of the three. Everyone involved gets a say, then, and they don’t dither off into oblivion because neither one of them wants to make the final decision from the get go.

Aziraphale might like that. Crowley thinks, _Aziraphale would look at a list of three things and ask, why not all of them?_ But that isn’t — that isn’t right, is it? Aziraphale doesn't always take the gratuitous choice. Sometimes he slams down the wall. Sometimes he denies; sometime he just doesn’t want —

He’s brought back to the present by Anathema’s elbow.

“Wanna talk about it?” She asks, low.

He doesn’t. “Nope,” he says, and then says “No witchcraft. Not now.”

Because Crowley and Anathema are both truly private people - if in very different ways - they’ve developed ways to tell each other when one may have crossed a friendly line into something that shouldn’t be up for discussion. Crowley’s word for Anathema is _witchcraft;_ Anathema’s phrase for him is _demon,_ as in _don’t be a demon right now, Crowley._ That’s one of the ways they work together; it’s why they can push and prod at each other, because they know the other will draw a line in the sand when needed.

“Fine, then,” says Anathema, rolling her eyes but nudging Crowley again with her elbow.

“Right,” says Newt. “Inception, Venom, or Mad Max.”

“How on earth did you pick those three,” Crowley drawls. “That is the most random list of movies of all time.”

“You really just want to see Tom Hardy,” says Anathema, “don’t you.”

“He’s pretty,” says Newt, ducking his head and grinning.

They start with Inception, of course, and about twenty minutes in Anathema nudges up against Crowley. He puts his arm around her back, rubbing at her shoulder. It shouldn’t be comfortable, but the pile of blankets and pillows on the floor has also grown, and even on his stomach it’s not bad at all.

“So Adam told you,” she murmurs, tucking herself closer. She and Newt are holding hands; Newt has his chin propped up on a soft-looking cushion, and he smiles at them briefly before turning back to the movie. Newt’s the kind of guy that has to focus on the show or he’ll absolutely lose track of everything and make them rewind it to start again.

“How long have you all been conspiring behind my back?”

He can feel Anathema’s chuckle. “We actually did have the same idea separately,” she whispers. “Newt and I have been talking about it for a year or two. Pepper sat us down all serious-like and started explaining that they were going to ask, but they didn’t mean to edge us out of the business and would never change anything... I think she was pretty surprised when we both burst out laughing.”

Crowley hums a noncommittal response. There has never been a line between friends and employees at _Ecdyses._ Which is strange, because back before Her, it had been that blurred line between colleagues and friends and coworkers that had stabbed him in the back so badly, but — it’s different out here. There’s no city, there’s no urgent deadlines; it’s really just waiting out the cycle of growth and responding to the change of seasons. One of the things Crowley most appreciates about this second chance is that he can - he has - he’s built a family, here, a support group that he might gripe about all the time but truthfully values more than he even knows.

Anathema, as always, reads Crowley like a book. “Not talking about it now, of course,” she continues, her voice soft. “I just wanted to ... acknowledge the elephant in the room. With all the dollar signs. You know.”

She’s the greatest best friend in the world and Crowley hates her, he really does. He pulls her in and - in a moment of weakness - presses his face into her hair. He’s never been the touchy-feely type but in the aftermath of That Morning he’s been craving this comfortable, comforting kind of touch.

“Nothing’s going to happen to us, either way,” Anathema says, low and urgent. “No one’s going to be mad if you want to continue your own way. We all promise.”

“Ssshhhh,” Crowley says.

———

Crowley ends up in the middle by the time they get to Venom, Newt and Anathema holding hands over his back, feeling safe and warm on both sides. As much as he loves watching _Venom: The Rom-Com_ , Crowley falls asleep between them, clutching a soft pillow and relaxing for the first time in a while.

He wakes up with at least four cats curled up with him in the fort. So they have at least four indoor cats. Another mystery solved.

———

Crowley’s tomatoes are _exploding._ The first of the grape tomatoes have been turning red at a pace of three to four a day; Crowley simply pops them into his mouth as he tends the garden, because there is absolutely _nothing_ like that juicy pop of sweet-rich flavor. The roma plant has outgrown its stake and its second stake and is perilously close to having to lean up against the house. The heirlooms are lagging, but whatever varietal of Big Boy he planted in the corner is serving up big, juicy reds every few days. It’s been lovely.

The beans are healthy, and he has a few eggplant that look delectable (he doesn’t do anything fancy, just preps them in big fat slices and fries them in a pan). He’s going to have an assload of zucchini, too, it looks like, which is a problem he’s happy to deal with.

He collects a serving’s worth of his salad greens (a mixed pack; he could identify them if he focused, but he isn’t in the mood), and a hot pepper, and a few beets. The tomatoes, of course. He picked up a couple ears of corn off of a stand he passed while running errands, and he has salmon to grill as well.

The corn is half-shucked and goes into the sink, half-full of water, to properly soak. The greens and beets are combined into a salad with tomatoes and his second try at homemade croutons. Crowley doesn’t eat a lot, but he’s entranced by his ability to make things himself. It makes sense: the winery is one big experiment at that; he shouldn’t be surprised when it bleeds into his other spaces. He’s a grower, a maker, at heart.

The grill’s heating. He drops the salmon into a bowl and starts with sesame oil, soy, a bit of brown sugar. Some cayenne pepper for heat. This is the kind of meal he would like to be making for two, really; it’s almost ridiculous to turn on the grill when it’s just him and a piece of fish and two ears of corn he knows he won’t finish anyway—

Crowley stops his hand right outside the pocket of his jeans, where it had been creeping towards his phone.

He’s still a fucking mess. He isn’t ready to see Aziraphale. Isn’t even ready to talk to him — to text him, for fuck’s sake.

Crowley breathes deeply. His hands still smell like tomato plants, that sharp scent that can linger for hours. He presses them to his face; breathes in the scent of another thing he made. Tries to ground himself against it.

He’s going to have to reply eventually. Aziraphale sends a few texts a day, most of them apologetic and asking for a response. Some of them are random, as if there’s a chance they can just drop back into normal conversation like nothing happened. Crowley has read them all. He has not said a word.

He gets why Aziraphale did what he did. Oh, does he get it. It’s the same kind of fucking thing that tanked his first fucking career: trusting people to do the right thing, and then finding out too late that they’re only interested in covering their own ass. That’s probably why it hurts so badly: it’s a twice-bled wound, being kicked in the exact same rib as before. Things never heal straight and they never heal fully; Crowley’s just surprised it took this long.

Eventually he won’t be able to dodge the other man. Aziraphale will apologize, and Crowley will accept it, because he gets it. He just isn’t sure what happens next.

His fucking heart wants Aziraphale like his grapes need sun and mist and everything about it hurts, it just hurts because _he_ hurts. Crowley had thought there was something between them, something unique and special; he’d thought they were exploring the possibility of a thing he’d never had before. Now he wonders, does Aziraphale just do this? Head off on book-writing trips, find a summer lover, then leave them when he’s done? Is this thing between them only physical? Is there _anything_ between them?

No. Don’t ask that. There is. Crowley has to believe _that_ or he’s just going to go round the bend. Nat will find him camping out in the old vines like a hobo, ranting about the stars or some shit.

Crowley pulls out his mobile and looks at it. He sets it down on the counter. He can’t answer anything right now; it’s time to make dinner.

———

_**He’s here,**_ Anathema has texted.

Crowley’s on the floor, leaning up against his couch, and suddenly wondering whether he can build a pillow fort in his own house. Of course he can. If Newt can do it, he absolutely has to be able to do it.

_**I am assuming you don’t want us to remove him, kick him out, or treat him poorly, right?** _

_oh jesus no_

Crowley stares. Aziraphale’s _here,_ on _his ground,_ in _his building;_ Crowley could stand up and walk the distance - fifty feet? Fifty yards? What the fuck is distance anyway - and go look Aziraphale in the face. He won’t; of course he won’t. But he could.

_**He asked Newt about you.** _

_what did he say_

_**Newt did what he does best and played very stupid. “Mr. Crowley? He’s out somewhere. What can I get you?”** _

**__**

_bless his dumb ass_

_**It’s a nice ass, you know** _

_i meant what did HE say_

Crowley rocks a bit, on the floor. Staying still feels too vulnerable.

_**Oh he asked where you were and if he could expect you tonight. He seems kinda upset that you aren’t here.** _

**__**

_im not coming ur in charge_

_**BRB, selling all of the reserve.** _

Crowley focuses on taking deep breaths. There’s a small part of him that’s tempted to just wander over. Rip off the bandaid. Let the knife sink in. It could be _over_ then, and he wouldn’t have to sit here and wonder about all the things he’s afraid of. But he isn’t going to. His hands are already shaking.

Jesus fucking _CHRIST_ he needs to just buck up. Face it. This is _STUPID._ He shouldn’t at _all_ be feeling this fucking _delicate._ He’s been here for eleven years without an Aziraphale and he can be here eleven more without one. It was a nice dream, sure. But he’s fine. Crowley’s fine. He’s always fucking fine.

He sits on the floor, knees tucked up and arms wrapped around them, until the sun sets.

———

Crowley’s emotions always come in big fat bursts, and they hit like a train hits, like a hurricane hits. As such, Crowley avoids having most of them as best he can. He has constructed a distance - and oh, yeah, it’s a construct; the glasses are mostly superficial - that slows them down enough that when they hit, it’s more like being love-tapped by the Bentley, rather than smashed into pieces by a sail barge.

One of the ways he avoids this kind of pain is by avoiding thinking about his future in general. Crowley has learnt not to _want._ When you want something, he thinks, it’s really just putting a giant spotlight on that thing, yelling at the universe to come and get it. Once you admit a want, then you can _not get it,_ and that opens up a whole bunch of shitty doors.

It’s really why he doesn’t talk about a lot of personal shit either. He made the mistake once, in his previous lifetime, of mentioning he was thinking about looking for a new apartment. For the next six goddamned weeks all anyone at work had wanted to ask about was the ‘new place’. It ended up being so fucking annoying he’d faked sick for three days. When he came back, all they wanted to ask about was his cough.

It isn’t that it’s bad to have people care about him. It’s more that he’s so _overwhelmed_ by care - and so _infuriated_ at the performative aspect of it - that it’s way easier to avoid a whole lot of the annoying bits by just never talking about himself ever.

Crowley thinks about _Ecdyses._

He knows that continuing this status quo is impossible. Well, no, it isn’t impossible, he could probably operate here forever, but — his heart does want to grow. He has three precious acres he hasn’t been able to touch and yeah, he wants to plant them. He wants to get out from under H.E.L. Law; he wants to be able to tell Hastur and Ligur to go fuck off a cliff. _Ecdyses_ is his life, and he doesn’t want his life to be stagnant.

So he thinks about it. He thinks about letting Anathema and Newt in; about letting Adam, and Pepper, and Wensleydale and Brian all put down money towards his debts. He thinks about sharing shares and having to consult others. Then he thinks about the freedom he’d have knowing that the only people he _owed_ were ones that he _liked._

He thinks about taking Anathema into the old vines: showing her the thirty-some-year-old roots, the thickness of some of the vines.

Then he thinks about Aziraphale. Of course. Because he can’t fucking stop thinking about the man for more than five fucking minutes at a time.

He’s known Nat and Newt and The Them for years, though. He knows by now they wouldn’t just flip like that, right? They wouldn’t just abandon him and make decisions on their own, right? They aren’t going to just move past him like he isn’t there?

Fucking _hell._

Crowley can’t think about the future because he’s just realized there’s no guarantee Aziraphale will be in it at all and if he had realized in April just how fucking deep this was going to get he would have —

What? Done something different? Crowley loves temptation. He would have done the same fucking thing no matter what. Would have reached out to kiss those lips, to tug at those clothes, to feel those hands on him.

Does he regret it?

Crowley isn’t sure yet.

———

_**left something on ur porch.** _

**__**

_wat the fuck_

_**ur friend gave it to me** _

**__**

_which friend i have plenty_

_**u know which one Azeerafael idk how u spell his name** _

****

**__** _Newt. ur the worst_

_**at spelling yeah mate** _

**__**

_the fuck is it anyway_

_**idk bro its like a million pages in a folder that just says CROWLEY on front i didnt fukin open it** _

****

———

Crowley is staring down at the folder in his hands.

It’s a simple manila folder, his name written on the front in carefully scripted capitals. He can recognize Aziraphale’s handwriting. When on earth did that happen? From watching him scribble away in his little book? Perhaps. There’s a good half-inch of paper inside here. What on earth did Aziraphale _send him._

He opens it up, and sees that the top sheet opens with _Crowley. My dearest Crowley._

Crowley sets the folder down.

———

He has an open bottle of Apocalypse, although now that he has a glass poured, he isn’t really sure he wants to just launch into the drinking; he might get weepy, and that’s absolutely not ideal. Bugger all that for a lark. But he needs something to read this. God, is this just the longest Dear John letter in the history of break-up letters? He isn’t looking forward to reading fifty fucking pages of why Aziraphale can’t be with him. He’d prefer a text message, for Christ’s sake.

Oh. Crowley checks his phone.

_**Crowley. I’ve left something for you with your friend Newt in the tasting room. I am hoping you’ll me do the honor of reading it, although I understand it isn’t a fair thing to ask when I’ve hurt you this badly.** _

****

**_It’s my book, you see. The real one. It will make more sense if you read the letter I attached._ **

****

**_I haven’t heard from you and that’s well within your rights, Crowley, but I will in this one case ask whether you would reply to this and tell me whether or not you’ve read it. If you have, I hope we can talk. If you refuse to, then I guess I’ll know how you feel, although hopefully we can talk anyway._ **

That’s it. Only Aziraphale sends text messages as if they’re novels.

Crowley drinks the Apocalypse. He can taste the age in it. Old vines produce well-developed grapes with deeper flavors. Here he knows the sand and the clay and the decades they’ve been standing. It’s like the taste of an old friend; the feel of a hand on his back.

———

_Crowley._

_My dearest Crowley._

_The first thing you should understand about me is that I appear to be a coward of the highest degree. I’ve known this about myself for some time, but only recently have I realized just how much it has come to rule my life. I fear — not change, really; I fear upset. I especially fear upsetting those with power over my own life. I fear the punishment and the disappointment both._

_None of this is an excuse, mind you, for the abhorrent way I tossed you aside Saturday morning. My hope is that you’ve opened this folder in an attempt to better understand me, so I offer reason and explanation, knowing it is no excuse. Your silence alone has shown me how much of an idiot I’ve been; it aches, like someone has pried open my ribcage._

_As you know, I was sent here to increase my blog following and to write a book. In truth, I’ve been writing two books, because I am a coward. One book is written in Gabriel’s style, the way my employer thinks books must be written in order to sell. It is, in fact, quite horrible, and isn’t what you’re holding in your hands._

_The other book has poured out of me like water bursting through a pipe no longer able to hold it back. The words flow onto the page with little effort. This second work is about me, and my feelings, and has forced me to look at some terribly uncomfortable truths I have been attempting to hide from myself._

_I’ve only recently realized that I have been writing the story of — of you and I, if I may be so bold._

_I do not know what to do with myself at this point. There is so much up in the air: so many things I have convinced myself are for the best when they may not be. My entire career hangs on the decisions I’ll make in the next few weeks, and that terrifies me, more than I can explain in words. Without my career, what am I? Who am I? And yet: can I continue to allow this continual disassembly of who I think I am for the whims of a corporation so far separated from reality? I’m lost, Crowley, I don’t know._

_I am very, very good at lying to myself. As such I feel like I’ve lied to you, by proxy, and I hate myself for it. When I’m around you everything seems right; I’m confident and secure, sure, but only there. I hate that I’ve capitulated to Gabriel’s whims; I hate that I panicked so badly that morning; I hate that I’ve hurt you._

_I don’t know what to do with all of these self-realizations.They sit here in my cupped palms, fragile and delicate, young birds who don’t know how to fly._

_What I do know is that I don’t want to lose you. I do not know what to call this thing between us, and at this point you’ve more right than I to define it. But the thought of never speaking to you again feels unallowable. No matter what direction my future might take, I think I want you in it. The nature of that involvement is a thing we can decide together, and you’ll feel no pressure from me on it until you’re ready to respond._

_As such, and with an abject apology, I offer you this. No one else has seen these words: not even Warlock. This is a book about you and me, and as such, you deserve to be the first._

_Yours,_

_Aziraphale_

———

He isn’t fucking crying.

That would be stupid.

So he isn’t. There’s no reason to. He shouldn’t be sad or upset any more; this is Aziraphale’s attempt at an - apology? explanation? - and Crowley is willing to see where it’s going. He’s already admitted to himself that he understands why Aziraphale acted the way he did - even if he doesn’t necessarily _like_ it - and he’s been given this gift. Why on earth would he be crying?

There’s just something in the - fuck - in the tone of it that’s so — it reminds Crowley of nights that have been just him and Aziraphale at the tasting bar, with Anathema or Newt or Adam happily rumbling round in the background; it reminds him of the way Aziraphale’s diction goes smooth and many-syllabled the more he drinks, the way it gentles his tone and softens his phrasings even as his metaphors grow more complex. Crowley recognizes it, is what he’s saying, and if he’d known that this was what Aziraphale sounded like talking from his heart he might have taken full advantage a long time ago.

He isn’t going to cry, though. It’s just that... Aziraphale sounds so _lost,_ here. He sounds like he’s reached a place that Crowley doesn’t like to think of him seeing alone - even though yes, goddamnit, logic, Crowley himself is still hurting - and his chest aches at it. This is a small piece of a bigger thing, and maybe Crowley has also been a damned fool, because he’s starting to see all of the ways that Aziraphale could have lied to himself as this thing between them grew. How fucking devastating does it have to be to see them now, drawn into the full sun of July in California: no escape here, no rain and no cloudy days. This light _bakes._

He doesn’t feel guilty for having drawn back, nor does he feel ashamed for hurting.

What Crowley feels is something he’s probably going to have to call sympathy, or maybe empathy? - which fucking sucks and no one can ever tell Anathema, ever - because this here is only the peak of the iceberg of things Aziraphale’s going through right now and he has to be so damn scared and Crowley doesn’t have to forgive or forget or do _anything at all_ to feel sorry for him about that.

He isn’t crying, though.

_———_

_I’ve made a friend. He’s obnoxious and boisterous and terribly rude; he’s curious, and insatiable, and absolutely brilliant. He walks the lands of this California terroir like he owns it, and he seems like he murmurs it lullabies, night-songs to make the vines grow tall and terrible and overwhelming._

Crowley’s choking.

_But I have made a friend here. He is arrogant and awful and amazing; he is descriptive and disclosing and deprecating. He knows what he is talking about, and yet he gifts it to me like a package: glowing and welcoming, a constellation of tastes he’s waiting for me to walk within, to describe with my own mouth and my own words._

God, he’s laughing. _Laughing._ It’s about him, and he can’t fucking stop giggling. Aziraphale’s words are a treat, a blessing. The way he’s describing wine country makes Crowley stop to think, to take it in. He’s been here for eleven years, and sure, that’s maybe only a _(mumbles numbers)_ percentage of his life but it’s far longer than the (three? four?) months Aziraphale has been here. The thing is, Crowley hadn’t really been into wine Before, so he’d been able to move out here with a clean palette; the countryside had taken him over, for sure, but he’d been starting in a much more different place.

_California wine country isn’t new, of course. There have been winemakers here since the mid-1800s. There have been experts talking about it for nearly as long. I won’t be that kind of oblivious privileged arsehole who pretends he’s discovered something new that no one else has ever seen: plenty have. Even when I lived in London, I heard talk and read articles. I even tasted a few rare vintages before I moved to Los Angeles for my current work._

_And I’ve visited many places Europe might call the heart of their wine output. Italy, oh, I’ve spent weeks in Italy, drenched in the sunlight and the scent of olive oil and the food, and the way their wines are just deep enough to break up the flavors in your mouth and serve them to you separately and with panache. France, I’ve spent a number of weekends consuming nothing but bread and cheese and the Burgundy. Spain? I could live in Spain for a month straight and consume nothing other than their deep tomato-based dishes and reds to absolutely die for. And that’s only the biggest three; there are other countries, other nooks and crannies there I could dive into and not come up for a long while._

_But none have challenged me like California. None have reared up in front of me, like a man standing from a chair, and demanded my attention. Maybe it’s because I grew up with the faint tastes of Europe on the back of my tongue; drinking wine in California is like a slap to the face. It’s a calling. California is this new thing, and I’m steeped in the old and the elderly. (Yes, I wear bow ties; you don’t have to point it out again.)_

_But I could spend every breath of the rest of my life here and never taste the same thing twice. That’s what’s here; that’s the way things have developed. And there is a part of me that wants nothing better than that._

_And yes, I realize, I could spend a lifetime in Europe - in France alone - doing the same thing. Of course. But other people have done that and I’ve followed in their footsteps. Out here, in the unique soil of the Russian River Valley, my footprints are my own._

_Newness, to me, is a breath of fresh air. And California the fairest air I’ve ever tasted._

———

This book is _raw._

Crowley may have considered his moments with Aziraphale out in the vines as vulnerable: and yes, they were. He’d told a story only a handful of people knew, and he’d told it true, carrying as much weight as it needed to.

But — there’s something safer about the verbal sharing, since it’s only recorded in the minds of the speaker and the listener(s). This is _writ._ This is Aziraphale’s heart, drawn out in letters and punctuation over a number of pages like a specimen pinned to parchment.

And this is it, Crowley thinks. Any thoughts he may have had about his own vulnerability, any time he may have wondered if Aziraphale would return the same, well: this is it, the tell-all, the reveal. Aziraphale is writ large on these pages, bold and beautiful and sloppy. Troubled, terrified, a disaster in the making. Crowley’s heart _aches._

He offered up a piece of his heart in the darkness, in his vines; and in the darkness later, between their bodies. Aziraphale, here, has spelled his out using an alphabet only he can summon; the kind that leaves shadows on a page.

_I was born the eldest in a family of four,_ Aziraphale has written. _A family that prided themselves on piety, on thrift, on the superiority of denial. We were not poor - oh, heavens, no - and yet we grew up sitting on couches with holes in the upholstery, clothing from second-hand stores, and meat bought from the bargain bin. We lived in shabby comfort as my parents watched their bank account grow and condescended down to everyone around them who had new carpet._

_Is it any surprise that I’m such an extravagant glutton? I say that without insult: here, within these secret pages, I know what I am. I know where I come from._

_That might be why I took up blogging in the first place, I think. Not just to experience such things myself, but to — to help share them with others. One doesn’t need to be rich to experience the luxury of a fifteen-pound bottle of wine paired with a nice cheese; that’s a gift accessible to all. No one should starve themselves of comfort for the sake of — well._

_If I starve myself from comforts these days, it’s things I’m not sure I deserve, or things I’m not sure I will be able to keep. For all of my big talk, maybe I’m still living in the shadow of that house, just a bit._

———

He’s hit the bottom of the bottle, but Crowley feels strangely calm with it. Aziraphale’s words are soothing; Crowley feels the soft drunk heat of Apocalypse, sure, but in the way that he feels relaxed, drawn out like a warm bath. His initial emotional responses, so sharp with uncertainty, have been ground down and leveled out by Aziraphale’s honest, friendly prose. He has a gift, his angel, he really does; this book tells so much not only by the words on the page, but in the manner that they’re spoken.

_My manager is a terribly boggling work. He combines the condescending and the genuine so well that you’ve no idea what on earth he means by it; you can only infer round the edges that it’s not meant to be nice. Sometimes I wonder whether he simply has no understanding of tact — but then he’ll say something so outright cruel it has to be intentional. He is an expert at couching these things in blinding smiles and exclamation points, as further camouflage. I am fairly sure I despise him._

_I thought it worth it, once: tolerating a toxic soul in order to fulfill my dreams. But I’m starting to see - to understand - what this is costing me._

And how can Crowley not feel that? His first career was a fucking mess, sure. But then he - fell from grace - and he’s sworn since then to never lie to himself in the same ways. He has an advantage, here — and the fact that he’s been believing Aziraphale’s words rather than digging in deeper. Not that it’s his fault or his responsibility... but Aziraphale’s hidden so much beneath a shallow layer of sand.

———

_I think I could very easily be in love with you, if I let myself,_ the final entry reads.

Okay, fine, fuck it, now Crowley’s crying. Just a little, though.

———

It’s something like four-thirty AM. Crowley’s been through the pages twice. (As much as the sunglasses are mostly an affectation, his eyesight isn’t perfect either, and he’s never been a fast reader.) (Especially when he’s been crying.) (Just a little.)

Crowley breathes in a deep ragged breath and then exhales it. He’s ended up in his bed, with all three of his windows wide open to let the cool air of the night inside. His fan is twirling ahead on low, and he’s tucked up under the covers with a giant knit cardigan pulled around him because the breeze is chilly against his skin. It’s good chill: the kind of night that’s worth tangling up into sheets and a blanket. The kind of night that isn’t cold, but just cool enough to let you know all of your nerves are still alive.

He has set the pages aside for now. He really already knows what he’s going to do. He picks up his phone, and pecks out with one finger:

_i did read your book_

His hands are still holding it, thumbs on the screen, when he sees the symbol flash up that means Aziraphale is typing. What the fuck? Did he stay up this late just in the hopes that Crowley might answer tonight? Or is he sleepless regardless? Or did he set some kind of — and which is preferable, anyway?

_**Thank you. I do hope it was meaningful.** _

Crowley starts and deletes probably three dozen words. He has no idea how to word this feeling that’s bursting out of his chest. In the end, though, he doesn’t have to, because Aziraphale sends one more message.

_**And?** _

It’s everything either of them have wanted, have thought or dreamt about, have been pushing for or considering or just plain yearning for.

Crowley types, slowly:

_we should probably talk_

His hands hover there, and for a moment, Crowley feels alight with everything. He has been deeper into his emotions this evening than many other nights before, and that isn’t a place he likes to be — and isn’t a place he’s good at being, besides. But something inside of him is floating like a feather, and while he isn’t naive enough to think it’s hope, Crowley still thinks it’s something.

He amends the message and then sends it before he can second-guess himself.

_we should probably talk tomorrow, if you still want. Angel._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's likely to be another 2 weeks until Ch15. I have some outstanding fics i need to wrap up and some personal projects going on that I'm starting (see more [here!](https://seventhe.dreamwidth.org/2020/08/20/)). Ch 15 is also something that some of you have been waiting for, for a very long time. Remember whose POV you're about to get, and get excited.
> 
> please let me know how we feel about Crowley in this chapter... it wasn't easy.


	15. Soft Tones of Violet and Red

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale makes progress, of a sort. Warlock gives him a reminder.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My friends!
> 
> This chapter was really hard to write. This kind of introspection, these conversations: I wanted them to be real. I'm tired of scenes where people swallow their own feelings and wants, and that means Aziraphale had to go through a bit of a wringer. Adult conversations are hard, honesty is brutal, and vulnerability sucks -- but you have to go through it. This chapter is very dedicated to past!Sev.
> 
> It took so long I couldn't even reply to all the lovely comments on the last chapter -- please know I read them all and I appreciate them even if I don't get to reply! WE BROKE 1000 COMMENTS, what EVEN is this fic. What even is my life!
> 
> love you, love you. I know some of you Warlock fans have been waiting for this moment, and I hope it meets expectations.

Aziraphale stands on the back deck of _Le Petit Voile,_ watching the sunrise.

He hasn’t slept. How could he? With the entirety of his heart in Crowley’s hands, waiting for some kind of response? (Aziraphale doesn’t often flatter himself - he doesn’t often deserve it - but he knew when he had handed it to Newt that Crowley would read it the moment he got it. He may not, apparently, know himself, but he knows Crowley well enough to know that.)

And then, in those dark hours before the dawn - hours far darker than midnight - he’d seen it. Just a quick exchange: how many sentences? Each letter has engraved itself on his heart.

_Angel._ Those letters: twice; thrice.

He has no idea what time it is now, now that the sun is beginning to inquire at the clouds in the sky. The horizon is notably lighter, and the clouds are working from purple to pink. It feels like he’s naked, out here, the way the chill of goosebumps keeps pricking at his skin; it isn’t the cold, even though the night must have dropped below 60 degrees. He feels bare.

Aziraphale breathes in the morning; exhales the night.

He knows something fundamental has changed inside of him. He isn’t quite sure what; there’s still sand in the eddies and ripples across the surface and he can’t quite see all the way down to the bottom of this sea. But his feet are firm in that sand, even if he doesn’t yet know which way they’re pointed. Something small and intrinsic in his heart has shattered, sure, but by shattering, it has released a pressure he hadn’t even realized had been building up inside him. It as if he’s just watched a toxic gas evaporate from his soul.

His metaphors are mixed; his words are clumsy. Aziraphale is terrified ...and exultantly excited.

He stands out on the deck until the sun peeks its head over the line of the horizon. His lower back aches and his toes have caught a chill, but Aziraphale just stands, hands in the pockets of his cardigan, and watches the sun change the clouds and the sky from violet to rose to fire-orange to sun-gold.

He doesn’t know what will come of the day. Aziraphale’s old enough and wise enough to know that this isn’t about figuring out what kind of desperate apology will make Crowley come back to him. That isn’t it at all, and it’s disrespectful to Crowley’s agency and Aziraphale’s feelings both. It’s about making his apology, and answering Crowley’s questions, and letting Crowley take the lead.

And that isn’t easy; Aziraphale’s used to hiding himself behind layers of proprietary, and rules, and neat little statements. But Crowley deserves both his truth and his respect.

Even if Crowley never wants to see him again. He has the right to ask that of Aziraphale, at least. And while Aziraphale isn’t going to accept that without discussion, he does know that Crowley could do so.

This was so easy when he was pretending: when he was the confident one, asking questions and making statements, helping soothe Crowley’s own anxious ways. But that had been an Aziraphale who had been quietly ignoring the big picture; he’d thought he could stay in this fantasy world, where nothing would question him and he didn’t have to consider any of the real issues. He’d gotten real emotions involved - as had Crowley - but it was so easy for him to deny them, honestly; to pretend they weren’t there, or that they weren’t as real as they were.

It’s alright. Part of feeling naked out here, under the rising sun and the paling sky, is that Aziraphale has been scraped clean. Many of his games, his walls, his facades and reluctances — they were all demolished under Gabriel’s grinning gaze and Crowley’s betrayed eyes.

Aziraphale has nothing left but himself. It’s time to find out if that’s what Crowley wants.

———

Aziraphale knows there’s also a conversation with Warlock that’s incredibly overdue. That being said, he cannot have that conversation today — not when every piece of his mind is going to be focused on how to approach Crowley. But part of what he owes Warlock he can provide, and will happily do so.

He brews a cup of coffee when he hears Warlock stumbling around upstairs into the bathroom, and cuts fresh slices of the baguette they’d had yesterday for an easy version of French Toast. Eggs, a splash of milk, cinnamon and allspice and vanilla, and then Aziraphale’s dipping the small slices into the mixture and cooking them up in a pan with melted butter to soothe the way.

“Th’ hell is this?” Warlock manages to get out, through sleepy lips that then attach themselves to the rim of the coffee mug and make horrific noises as Warlock slurps down a meaningful portion.

“Breakfast, my dear,” Aziraphale says idly, flipping another four in the pan. “I felt like something special this morning, it all.”

Warlock grunts and Aziraphale hears a sound as if he’s trying to inhale the rest of the coffee. Then there’s the obvious noise as he peels a banana, followed by Warlock asking with half of his mouth full: “So are you out of your slump, then?”

Aziraphale bristles initially, then reminds himself that he’s moving forwards out of this, rather than stalling until everyone pretends it didn’t happen. “Somewhat,” he tells Warlock, and if it’s still rather stiff he feels he’s earned a bit of that. “I’ve at least decided,” he manages to say while he flips the small toasts onto a plate and sets it on the table to start four new ones, “that I can stop wallowing now and _do_ something.”

“Ah,” says Warlock, grabbing three off the plate and immediately drowning them in the syrup Aziraphale already heated and set out. “Proper period of penance done and gone, then?”

There are so many ways Aziraphale could respond to that, and in the end he just says, “Somewhat. Quite.”

He sits down once there are at least fifteen pieces available on the serving plate. Aziraphale chooses blackberry jam for one, powdered sugar for another, syrup for a third; he isn’t the world’s fanciest cook, but he knows his staples. And he’s certainly going to thoroughly enjoy them, now that his entire future has blossomed into possibilities like a winding vine.

“I’m going to need the car today,” he tells Warlock, blurting it out too quickly when it’s supposed to sound assured and confident. “I’m hoping your friends can take you anywhere you were indenting to go, but I also - I, um. Well.”

He picks up his teacup and drinks. He trusts Warlock more than most other people in this world, but he still has to reassure himself for a moment before saying it.

“I’ve something for you to read,” Aziraphale tells his French Toast.

He can almost _feel_ Warlock’s reaction: the dear boy freezes in his seat, and then his shoulders sink somewhat, as if releasing tension; then he sits up straighter, as if realizing this is a more serious thing than he thought. “Yes?” Warlock asks, and those dark clever eyes are tracking Aziraphale’s every movement and wince.

“Yes, my dear,” Aziraphale says gently. “I’ve the first few bits of a book for you to read.”

Even now, he’s only giving Warlock half of what he gave Crowley. Aziraphale had cut it off at the point where his meandering words had become increasingly and predominantly about Crowley in some way; that story, he knows, may still not be his to tell. But the first few chapters are safe enough - it’s only Warlock - and Warlock should know.

Warlock needs to read it all: the increasing agitation, the level of discomfort as Aziraphale tried more and more to fit into FTA’s rigid structure. The way the landscape and the mouthfeel of the terroir out here had struck him blind; the way these flavors and tastes flapped their edges at him like a map he couldn’t yet read. The enchantment of the soil and the tastes; the way the old vines and golden landscape spoke to him, filled in places Aziraphale had never realized were wanting. Warlock needs to see this; Warlock deserves to know, at this point. Warlock has only ever been an ally, and Aziraphale owes him far more than he has offered.

He retrieves the folder from where it has been sitting on top of the microwave and slides it across the table to sit by Warlock’s elbow.

“This is what I’ve really been writing,” Aziraphale tells him. “And I’m looking for your honest opinion on it, Warlock.”

Warlock’s eyes widen — and then narrow. Warlock’s far smarter than anyone gives him credit for, Aziraphale knows; he’s had that full intellect turned on him a number of times.

“Az,” he says. “What’s going on?”

There are so many things Aziraphale wants to say. He gathers himself up, swallows his mouthful of French toast, and says: “I’ve been writing two books this whole time.”

It hits the silence between them like an egg against a garage; there’s a bit of quiet where they’re both watching gravity pull things down, and then Warlock sighs. It’s a sigh that’s quite older than he is, aggravated and exhausted and infinitely fond. “Of course you were.”

“I wasn’t at all sure about the first book,” Aziraphale tells him, like a confessional. “The writing was good quality, but it was — jagged, stream-of-consciousness, nothing that had a plotline or a purpose. It’s not that I thought it was bad; I just.” He sighs. “Even the most beautiful words do not a coherent novel make.”

Warlock snorts. “I’m fairly sure you’re underestimating your own underestimation,” he tells Aziraphale, “but alright. So, what? You started over?”

Aziraphale straightens his shoulders. “I started a second attempt in the style of my blog, if you must know. It was intended to be much closer to my, em, source material. Assuming the first attempt proved too - I don’t know; too much - to be published, I would at least come out of the trip with something.”

Warlock makes a noise around a mouthful of French toast that Aziraphale couldn’t decipher. “Right,” he starts, and Aziraphale can hear the weight of the hundreds of conversations Warlock has tried to start about this. “Does that mean we’re finally going to untangle all of this—”

Aziraphale lifts a hand, palm-out, and rubs his other hand down his face. Warlock stills. There’s a gentle moment of pause between them.

Eventually, Aziraphale sighs. “Yes, I assume so,” he admits, looking down at the table. “But not — not right now.” He gestures at the folder at Warlock’s elbow. “I need you to read this, first, but also I’m...” He trails off. Swallows. Drinks another sip of his tea.

“I’m speaking with Crowley tonight,” he says eventually. “I’m sure you can appreciate the... delicacy.”

“God.” Warlock groans. “Az. Fuck.” He buries his face in his hands, fingers tightening into his hair; Warlock’s hair is always a mess when he wakes up, a bundle of half-kinked curls sticking out from his scalp. “I can’t help but feel a bit responsible here, you know?”

“No!” Aziraphale’s on his feet before he even realizes how sharply that came out. Warlock looks surprised, and Aziraphale finds himself throwing out words in response: “None of this is your fault,” he says, almost angrily. “You’ve done nothing but ask me for honesty and integrity, and I’m the one who has continued to say _everything is alright_ as if those words are — some kind of _spell_ making it true.” He softens his voice. “My dear boy, I’m the one who has messed things up so thoroughly.”

“Az.” Warlock sighs. Now _he’s_ pinching the bridge of his nose, rubbing a palm down his face. Aziraphale sits back down, waits.

Eventually Warlock looks up and gives Aziraphale a crooked grin. “We both kinda messed this one up, didn’t we?”

Aziraphale, to his surprise, laughs. “I’d say it more in terms of... neither one of us quite expected this.”

Warlock snorts, but his smile is fond. “Of course you would,” he says.

Silence falls again. It isn’t a bad silence; he and Warlock have been together through too much for it to be awkward. Aziraphale wants to be able to say more, but he knows his mind and his heart are going to be locked on the issue of Crowley today. He’ll figure out the rest of it once that bridge is patched.

(And what if Crowley says _no, that’s enough?_ What if he looks at the futility, the distance between them, and the way Aziraphale acted, and says, _Sorry, I can’t?_ Aziraphale feels his heart clench at it; he reminds himself that’s within Crowley’s rights to do so.)

“I’m here for you,” Warlock says finally, and Aziraphale has to smile.

———

Aziraphale sits in the driver’s seat of this ridiculous luxury SUV, staring at the entryway into the _Ecdyses_ tasting room. He’s done something awful with the LED lights inside; he’d only wanted to turn them off but they’re now cycling through some obnoxious rainbow to a beat he can’t detect. It would be funny if he weren’t filled with such — what would the word even be? Panic seems too shallow; fear too hopeless. For all that he’s a writer, Aziraphale can’t describe the feeling in his chest.

All he needs to do is get out of the car. But he can’t decide whether to walk though the tasting room or directly back to Crowley’s house; Crowley’s text had said _my place, 19:00,_ but Aziraphale’s so unsure of _everything_ right now that he doesn’t know where Crowley would be waiting for him.

It’s finally cowardice that decides it for him — Aziraphale isn’t sure he can deal with Warlock, Crowley, _and_ the _Ecdyses_ staff all in one day. Maybe that isn’t cowardice - maybe it’s just a simple conservation of emotional energy - but it feels like what Aziraphale has to do. Crowley is the priority.

The sun isn’t quite set; it hovers low on the horizon, sending slanted rays of gold through the vineyard, casting everything in a warm haze. Aziraphale stops at the end of the parking lot and looks off into it for a few breaths. It strikes his heart, again, just how _beautiful_ it is here in his eyes; the way his chest clenches like an awe-filled sigh, the sort of feeling that makes you vaguely want to cry but you don’t know why.

From there it’s a few steps to Crowley’s door. Aziraphale takes a moment and thinks this is maybe the bravest thing he has ever done, but he doesn’t feel brave. He’s afraid. He’s afraid of hurt, yes, but he’s also afraid this is the end of a thing that could have been as beautiful as the countryside.

He knocks. Crowley answers.

Crowley looks — _tired._ He looks stiff, almost awkward, in a way Aziraphale’s never seen him be; graceful gestures devolved into jerky movements as he backs out of the way and waves Aziraphale inside. He looks uncomfortable. And oh, it hits Aziraphale all over again just how _beautiful_ Crowley is as well, like a punch to the lungs. He has his hair down, a brilliant tangle of soft waves, and his sunglasses on. He’s wearing a simple black tee and grey denims. He’s barefoot. Aziraphale wants to worship him from the soles of his feet to the crown of his head. He swallows.

They look at each other for a long minute or two, and then Crowley chuckles, a sad tight sound. “Fuck,” he says. “I missed you.”

“Oh,” says Aziraphale. He feels like his eyes are devouring Crowley. Is it appropriate to say — no. Aziraphale wants honesty, not appropriate conversation, and Crowley deserves that. “And I you, darling.”

He wants to reach in, embrace Crowley, gather him up in his arms and hold him until they can both breathe again. Aziraphale doesn’t, though. He isn’t sure he has the - the right? - either way, it’s Crowley’s move. Everything is now in Crowley’s hands.

Crowley makes an awkward aborted gesture with his hands, and then heads to the sofa. Aziraphale, following, sees a bottle of the Magnificat Silver, two filled glasses resting on the table.

Crowley, watching as Aziraphale settles on the other side of the couch, catches his curious glance and makes another small sad-happy laugh noise. “It’s kind of our thing, isn’t it?”

The first glass of wine Crowley poured for him. The first conversation they had. Aziraphale wonders whether he’s been smitten from the beginning. It’s highly possible. He wouldn’t put anything past his poor confused heart, the way he’s had it locked and chained and hidden for so long.

“Cheers,” he says simply, lifting the glass. They clink. As he takes a sip, the flavor profile spreads across his tongue: jasmine, and peaches, and that dominant sharp green apple flavor. There’s something ironic there: Crowley offering him apples. He’d been gone from the first taste.

“Crowley,” he says, and he’s done thinking about it, he’s done trying to perfect the words. “I am so very terribly sorry.”

Crowley watches him for a minute. Aziraphale’s so used to seeing his eyes at this point that the sunglasses are stark, startling. He can’t blame Crowley, though; Crowley’s used to using them as armor, as a mask. Aziraphale knows he’s lost the right to that vulnerability.

Crowley sighs. “I know, angel. I do.”

“I should never have said that,” Aziraphale tells him. “What a horrible thing to say about your—” The words fall short. “Partner,” he says eventually, but no single word can encompass the way Crowley makes him feel.

Crowley shifts on the couch like he’s trying to settle in. He has his feet up on the cushion, legs tucked beneath him. His feet bear thin brushstrokes of curling red hair. “It isn’t,” he starts, and then sighs, exasperated, as if his tongue is in knots. “Y’know, I get why you said it.”

“I shouldn’t have,” Aziraphale says, and Crowley’s mouth makes an uncomfortable twist.

“No, see, that’s fine.” Crowley shifts again, sitting up straighter. “Aziraphale, you told me back when we first met that your boss doesn’t like when his employees make ... personal connections to the places they’re writing about.” There’s a small unhappy frown on his face, but his voice sounds raw and honest. “That’s not what I’m — that’s not what hurt.”

“Tell me,” Aziraphale says. _Make me understand. Let me never again do this to you._

“It’s not what you said,” Crowley tells him, and sets his wine glass down on the table so that he can clench his hands together. He looks down at the tangled fingers. “I get that, really, I do. I have no problem lying to your boss. I just don’t get why you — why you did it that way.”

“I panicked,” Aziraphale says. “It isn’t an excuse at all, but I panicked and I just didn’t — think.”

Crowley pushes his glasses up into his hair to rub at his eyes; Aziraphale gets a brief glimpse before Crowley lowers the sunglasses again. “I mean, you could have let me _know._ A signal, hell, a wink across the kitchen to tell me to back you up? Fuck, Aziraphale, you could have _woken me up_ and just asked me not to move. I mean, did you think,” and here Crowley’s voice tangles in his throat. “Did you think I wasn’t gonna have your back? Did you think I wouldn’t listen?”

Aziraphale feels like his chest is being crushed. “I didn’t think,” he says, and his voice in his own ears is so _mournful._ “I just — I picked up the phone and panicked. All I could think about was keeping Gabriel happy so that he didn’t... So that he didn’t get mad,” he finishes, and feels something inside his own head unfurl like a blossom on a grape vine.

Crowley‘s mouth is set in a line, and Aziraphale hurries on. “And of course, to you, it looked like I took Gabriel’s side... Oh, Crowley.”

Crowley shakes his head, letting some of his hair fall in front of his face. It feels like he’s hiding. “It isn’t even about sides, angel,” Crowley says. “It was just...” He swallows. “I just wish you had said something first. It was pretty awful to wake up to.”

His voice isn’t even accusing. It’s just... hurt.

Aziraphale looks down into his glass of Magnificat, watching it swirl. He remembers that night, the soft sweetness of Crowley’s mouth, the press of all that skin into his: their hands; their hips. He remembers how lost they’d been in each other, too uncoordinated to do anything but press together in the most basic of ways. Lost in their want, drunk on their fingertips... it had been incandescent.

He’d thought _his_ morning ruined, by Gabriel’s presence. Crowley’s had been _shattered._

He lets the feeling swirl in his chest, watching the pale gold of the Chardonnay spin in his glass. He lets it go until the thoughts begin to form words. Crowley deserves that, something more constructive than Aziraphale’s gut-burst apologies.

“I’ve been struggling with this job ever since I came here,” Aziraphale admits. He glances up; the room is bathed in the thick gold of the sun hitting the horizon. It feels dark, somehow. “I’ve been trying so hard to be what they want that I’m not sure anymore what... what I want.” He breathes it out, a confession that sits in the air between them, hovering.

Crowley nods, waiting for him to continue.

Aziraphale takes another sip. Peaches and grapefruit and sharp tart apple slide over his tongue, a reminder of where he is. Who he’s talking to. Who _he_ is, for some value of Aziraphale: a man who finds joy in the expression of these flavors across his tongue.

“I thought I could simply follow their instructions, and that they obviously knew what success was, and that this would be _easy._ ” He can hear the frustration in his own voice. “Nothing about this has been easy. This place is - I don’t even know the words to use, Crowley, this place is astounding - it doesn’t conform to what they want.” Aziraphale pauses, holds the words in his mouth. “I might not conform to what they want.”

“Do you want to?” Crowley asks gently.

“I did,” Aziraphale says, and then pauses. “I thought I did. I really thought I did. I thought this was my big chance to finally make it, you know? And when I came out here I was _inspired,_ I mean — well, you’ve seen it.” He chuckles, and tucks his head. “But that’s a book no one wanted.”

Crowley scoffs. The sound is still small, sad, but it sounds a little more like Crowley. “It’s good, angel,” he says. “It’s really good. I’m not much of a reader, but even I can tell.”

“Well,” Aziraphale says, sighing. “It isn’t good enough for Gabriel. Not much of anything I do is good enough for Gabriel.”

At this, Crowley jerks a little as if cutting off a gesture. He sits up and, to Aziraphale’s surprise, takes off his sunglasses.

“And that’s the problem, isn’t it,” Crowley says; it isn’t a question. Aziraphale literally has to catch his breath at the sight of Crowley’s beloved face. His eyes are a bit red, like he’s been rubbing at them, but they’re still so beautiful; the way he looks at Aziraphale makes him want to cry all over again.

He sighs. “That’s a lot of it. But I’m not even sure about this _work_ anymore. Wine country has _changed_ the way I write. I’ve found something new.”

Crowley bites at his lower lip. “So what are you going to do?” His voice is so soft, low; it isn’t _emotionless_ , it’s still raw, but it’s more like — Aziraphale recognizes it, finally. Crowley’s trying very, very hard not to influence the discussion.

Except that Aziraphale wants him to. Aziraphale wants to _include_ Crowley in this. Is that too much to ask? He isn’t even sure.

He sighs and has a sip of his wine. “I don’t know, my dear. I’ve been thinking about it, but to be frank…” He shrugs, glancing over at Crowley through lowered eyelids. “You were my first priority.”

Crowley pauses and Aziraphale watches as a flush appears high against his cheekbones. “I mean, aahhhh, uh, thanks, I guess.” It’s soft, almost. Aziraphale doesn’t want to say tender, so he thinks it, instead.

“I just.” Now Crowley ducks his head again and hides his eyes behind the dripping curls of his hair. “Aziraphale, how are we going to figure this out if you don’t know what you’re doing?”

And that catches Aziraphale’s breath in his throat like ice. “How do you mean?”

Crowley looks out at him from behind the curtain of his hair. It’s lovely: those stone-bright eyes peeking through curls lit now with the fire of the California sunset. “Angel. I’ve never had cause to doubt you or question anything or — I mean, no more than you normally do when you’re, uh, well.” Crowley swallows loudly, then follows it with a sip of the Chardonnay. “You know.”

“Explain?” Aziraphale asks, and he means it but there’s also the tiniest note of flirting inside.

Crowley must hear it because he snorts and tugs his hair out of his face. “Y’know, when you’re, uhh, getting to know someone. Y’re never sure where you are, but it’s …in a good way. Y’re like. Moving the same way.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale says gently, because if Crowley’s saying this now, what does he think happened? “I know.”

Crowley spasms a bit, jerking an arm out to sip his wine. “I never expected you to be like that,” he says, very softly.

Aziraphale sighs. “Well, it’s clear now that Gabriel brings out the worst in me,” he says, rather more irritably than he’d meant. “But darling, it isn’t like I’d ever ask you to choose between me or your winery, now.”

Crowley’s head snaps up, _sharp,_ and his eyes narrow. “Don’t be cruel, Aziraphale,” he snaps. “No one’s asking you to choose one or the other like this is life or death. Christ. Fuck.” He drags his hands through his hair, pushing it away from his face in a gesture somewhat like Warlock’s this morning. “Don’t be this obtuse. _No one_ is drawing that line except _you._ ”

The tone bites through Aziraphale’s skin and he freezes, his wineglass halfway to his mouth. What the —? It’s _always_ been between his jobs and — and the only phrase Aziraphale can think is _his happiness,_ and that just wrenches his heart another quarter-turn out of his chest. No, _no,_ this is - this is a thing that - oh, well, _bother._

He’s staring into the wineglass but isn’t sure he’s really seeing it. Maybe Crowley’s _right._ Maybe he’s been so caught up in the rhetoric of FTA that he’s thinking too hard about this — if Crowley’s really willing to have his back, to be on his side - their own side - he maybe doesn’t have to give up …everything.

But there’s still that bit of his mind that’s peeled open, bleeding-raw, petals sprawling to reveal a sensitive truth Aziraphale hasn’t looked at; probably doesn’t want to look at. He will, of course - he’s past the point of no return - but he hasn’t had time to read what’s writ there.

“You’re saying that I could…?” Aziraphale’s voice trails off. He couldn’t speak if he wanted to, now.

“Fuck,” says Crowley. He stands, abruptly, pacing across the room. “Angel. Aziraphale. Let me be clear as goddamned _crystal._ ” He turns, although his eyes are flicking wildly around Aziraphale’s face. “If you told me you were - in, I guess, you were - here, with - fuck - shit, fuck, _sssshit_.” Crowley turns away as if wrestling his tongue under control. His hands scrub over his face, twice. “If you and I were a thing, and I - we - and we knew it, angel, look, you could have whatever you wanted and I would bend over _backwards_ to get it for you. But this…”

Crowley subsides. It’s like the withdrawal of a bright flame; the sun finally setting over the horizon of the Russian River Valley. “That’s the first time I’ve felt alone with you,” he says. It’s soft and it’s final.

Aziraphale doesn’t have words in his mouth. It feels empty, gaping, like it’s full of his heart’s blood and that isn’t enough. He wasn’t - hadn’t - well.

“I want to fix this,” he tells Crowley.

Crowley laughs, something closer to his full laugh than any other noise he’s made today. “I do too,” he says - urgent; wanting - “oh, angel.” His palms are suddenly on Aziraphale’s face, trembling slightly; his fingers tuck up into Aziraphale’s curls. Aziraphale feels his eyes close as Crowley’s thumbs trace the lines of his cheekbones. “Angel, god, fuck, this isn’t a no. Or a stop. I just.”

Crowley’s voice is shaking, too, a slight quaver to it that slices the pieces of Aziraphale’s heart all apart. He reaches up to wrap his fingers around Crowley’s, bringing them down from his cheeks so that he can hold them in his lap. “Tell me what you need, darling,” he says. “I won’t lie, I’m not going to make you false promises, but tell me what you need to know.” His words just flow over them, and Crowley tips forward until his forehead is resting against Aziraphale’s shoulder, his breath warming Aziraphale’s collarbone.

“I need,” Crowley breathes into his neck, and it’s so brutally honest: more than being naked; more than the two of them with their hands down each other’s pants in the kitchen of the house that isn’t Aziraphale’s. Crowley pulls back and looks Aziraphale in the eye.

“I need to know what piece of the future you’re willing to give me,” he says, and shudders as he says it. “Which probably means you need to figure out your future first, then come tell me what you can do, and…” Crowley swallows, and Aziraphale shakes himself as Crowley presses a trembling but gentle kiss to the line of Aziraphale’s jaw.

“And then we figure out what we can be,” Crowley whispers, and Aziraphale bows his head to rest against Crowley, and breathes deep.

———

Since Aziraphale’s home earlier than expected, he finds Warlock curled up in one of the comfortable recliners in the greatroom with the book in his lap. He has a glass of wine next to him, mostly empty, and Aziraphale slides himself into a seat at the broad dining room table and drops his head to rest on his arms, folded on the table.

“Wait,” Warlock says, once he realizes that Aziraphale’s back, “what the fuck? Don’t tell me that went badly?”

“Oh,” Aziraphale says, lifting his head. “No, I mean… Well. Not necessarily bad, but …not immediately good, either.”

“Right,” says Warlock, and there’s an edge to his voice that Aziraphale has never heard before. “Stay right there. We are going to talk.”

So Aziraphale stays — for a while, until he realizes that even though he isn’t hungry at all, he hasn’t eaten nearly enough today to deal with this kind of emotional upheaval, and he moves into the kitchen. Luckily he and Warlock and Madame Tracy have all independently gathered quite the collection of appetizer-type snacks, and Aziraphale has a lovely selection of crackers, and cheese, and cherry tomatoes and slices of cucumber and locally-made hummus and sausage slices and french bread and olive oil and … Aziraphale’s outdoing himself, in some desperate attempt to make things better.

But it _will_ make things better if he has a good healthy meal, he tells himself, and brings the series of plates out to the dining room table. He then goes back to browse through their wine collection; he isn’t sure whether Warlock wants white or red, and he doesn’t want to preemptively make a decision that makes Warlock be cranky. He’s had quite enough to deal with already today.

He’s busy assembling himself a selection of bread and cheese and tomato when Warlock comes back down the stairs. He’s got a bottle of Armagnac V.S.O.P. in his hand; Aziraphale sits back, surprised. Brandy’s one of the things he loves to do tastings of occasionally, and that’s one of his favorites. Why does Warlock have that specific bottle? Maybe the boy’s trying to get himself into finer liquors; that would be nice.

“Alright,” Warlock says. He stomps into the kitchen and gets two glasses: his he fills with ice; Aziraphale’s is delivered empty. He pours out two - three - fingers into the glass and then sits down across from Aziraphale.

His stampede halts a bit when he sees the spread of food across the table. “Oh,” Warlock says, and reaches out for the sausage. “Thanks.”

“I haven’t eaten much today,” Aziraphale admits. “I wasn’t hungry.”

“That happens,” Warlock says.

For a few moments they sit and eat in silence. Aziraphale appreciates it; his head feels like it’s full of cotton, and there’s exhaustion weighing heavily behind his eyes. Seeing Crowley was brilliant — and terrible. He’s so much more aware of what he’s done. He’s so much more aware of what he could lose. And how can he not have an answer for Crowley, sitting there and staring into those beloved eyes? What kind of coward is he?

“Read your book,” says Warlock. He’s building a sandwich out of the crackers, hummus, and cucumber. “Far better than the one you’ve been sending Gabriel.” There’s still a serious note in his voice that’s exceedingly unusual; Aziraphale hasn’t heard him quite so cold since they’d first worked out the contract with FTA.

“Thank you, I think.” Aziraphale realizes he’s drained his glass, and Warlock slides the bottle across the table with a sigh. He says nothing, though, so Aziraphale keeps picking at his plate as Warlock finishes his small army of sandwiches.

They pass the bottle back and forth over the giant, empty dining room table. Aziraphale isn’t really sure what he’s waiting for; apparently Warlock has something to say. It’s probably another conversation about how much hurt Aziraphale has caused. Two in one day — with no sleep, too. There’s a strangely tense camaraderie in the air, but Warlock’s voice has Aziraphale worried. He’s waiting, but they just keep filling their glasses and then pushing the bottle back across the table.

Aziraphale isn’t really sure what to say. Is there anything to say? It isn’t like he and Warlock are — they have a _business_ relationship, it would be entirely improper to open up to him, to talk to him like, like... well. Like family. But who else here is on Aziraphale’s side?

_It isn’t even about sides, angel._

Warlock makes a noise and Aziraphale realizes he’s let his face fall from his normal stoic expression. He glances up, shocked, and watches as Warlock takes one more big swallow and sets his glass down on the table like he’s making a decision.

“Alright.” His voice is more serious, more grave, more confident than Aziraphale’s ever heard it before — at least, addressed to him. “Are you ready to listen? Because there’s something I want to tell you, but I’m not going to bother unless you’re actually _listening to me._ ”

Aziraphale gapes. Warlock’s _never_ talked to him quite like this before. He nods, knowing his eyes are wide, and reaches for his own glass.

“Do you know _who you are,_ ” Warlock starts, and then as Aziraphale opens his mouth: “Nope, no, shut _up._ I am not asking you, I am _telling you._ You,” and he punctuates it with a sharp gesture, pointing his finger. “You are listening.”

Aziraphale makes a little mumble that’s part scoff, part sarcastic, and part apology. But he does, in fact, shut his mouth.

“You,” says Warlock, pointing again. “You’re A.Z. Fell. You have decades of experience and expertise and knowledge doing what you do, and what _only_ you do. You are _incredibly_ marketable. You have years of public bank account proving that you’re talented. You’re popular on your own, and you’re big because of _you_ and what _you_ offer. You make the content.“ The finger levels at Aziraphale with a stability that surprises him, seeing as half of the bottle is gone. “You’re the one with value. Proven value.”

Aziraphale opens his mouth again, because that isn’t right, Warlock’s just being flattering—

Warlock continues, his voice going even sharper. “You’re the talent. You’re the resource. And you need to eventually stop letting _them_ turn you into another cog in the machine. You come with worth _in your back pockets,_ Az, and you could go _anywhere_ and make a _fortune_ just doing what you do. No, no,” and his hand slams onto the table. “You are not talking yet. You are going to listen to me and the only words you are allowed to say are _Oh, Warlock, you’re absolutely right.”_

“Oh, Warlock,” Aziraphale begins, feeling a bit shaken. “But you must be—”

“No.” It’s nearly a shout. Warlock has never even _looked_ at Aziraphale like this before, as if there are certain rules to this universe and they are absolutely all under his control and he is breaking them all right now. “Do you know who _I am?”_

Aziraphale, having figured out that these aren’t questions he’s meant to answer, takes a sip of the brandy and remains still. He’s trying to keep his fingers from shaking against the glass.

“I’m Warlock Fucking Dowling.” Warlock slams his finger into the table on each piece of his name. “I have worked exits and loopholes and choices and chances into every single contract you’ve _ever_ signed, because I know my shit and I know how to protect you from yourself. I have researched this situation so deep that I could recite the last ten years of the Food and Travel Adventures Business Plan, and I have constructed the most ruthless fucking contract you’ve ever seen.”

Aziraphale’s aware that his eyes are wide and his fingers are actually shaking on the glass. He swallows, but he isn’t looking away.

“I am the mother _fucking_ son of Thaddeus Dowling, possibly the smarmiest, trickiest, and most annoyingly ingratiating Ambassador to ever hold the job, and Harriet Dowling, who has made an entire political career of being _underestimated._ ” Warlock’s eyes are dark now, burning, and they haven’t left Aziraphale’s for a _second._ “I have _two_ degrees in this work, a number of satisfied clients, and _years_ of working behind the scenes to win you every single battle you never even knew was being fought.”

The finger comes down to - this time - tap gently on the table. “Az, I’m only going to tell you this once, so I want you to have the full context of what I mean when I say it.”

Aziraphale’s staring. Something strange is gathering in the back of his head, like a wave pulling back, swelling, waiting for the crash.

Warlock taps his finger again, like a _pay-attention_ gesture. “You need to understand the background to really understand what this statement means, okay?” He takes a deep breath, and narrows his eyes, holding every ounce of Aziraphale’s attention.

“The thing about - about being who I am - is that I can get you into, or _out of,_ anything.” Warlock particularly annunciates the words, probably to make sure Aziraphale’s getting it. “ And the thing about being who _you_ are is that the opportunities are truly limitless. I haven’t spent this long doing what I do to get either of us locked into a corner. If you want something, and you tell me to do it, I can make _anything_ happen.”

Aziraphale swallows. Certainly it can’t be that easy. Certainly it isn’t _really_ an option, all things considered—

“Don’t you look away from me,” Warlock nearly hisses at him, although he isn’t angry; he’s lit up, from the inside, a sudden burning brand facing him down. Aziraphale has the realization, deep down in his gut, that this must be what Warlock looks like when he’s at the table with Gabriel, or Michael, or any of the other editors they’ve worked with over the years. This is the Warlock that won him that contract, he knows now; this is the Warlock that’s acted like a buffer zone between Aziraphale and Gabriel, for three years running.

“I can make anything you want happen.” Warlock slides back, so that he’s sitting upright in his chair, palms resting on the table. He looks like a corporate executive in a boardroom. “So the question - and this is a real question now, Aziraphale. What is it that you _want?_ ”

Aziraphale realizes he’s breathing hard, his heart _pounding._

This is - this is as much of a shock as speaking with Crowley: same sensation, just along a slightly different wavelength. He feels _stunned._ There’s nothing that he can say, right now; he’s suddenly struck dumb, all of the words usually at his command.

Warlock stands up. He fills Aziraphale’s glass nearly to the top, and then pauses a moment, gathering up the folder with the book, his glass, and the bottle of brandy. “I don’t want you to answer right now. You need to think about this — who you are, and who I am, and what that means you can do. Literally anything, Aziraphale. I’m not even asking for a final plan; a few guidelines works.” He grabs a couple slices of the bread and cuts of sausage and balances the plate on top of the folder. “I just need you to give me something to work with - something that you want - because this, well, this—” Here he makes a gesture with the hand holding the bottle that clumsily encompasses the house. “This is stagnant. This is a stalemate. You tell me what you need, and I’ll get it for you.”

He turns towards the stairs, somehow balancing all of his items, and it just makes Aziraphale wonder how many things he doesn’t know about Warlock Darling.

“Think about it, Az. And get some sleep — you look like shit.”

Aziraphale watches Warlock climb the stairs, his arms full, and feels like he’s been skinned raw today.

———

He’s back out on the porch. It’s past midnight - he has no idea what time it is - and he has his most comfortable cardigan wrapped around himself. He’s wearing his slippers. Aziraphale has tucked himself up into one of the corners of the wide square of benches; the solid wood behind his back is bracing. Which is good, because Aziraphale feels… unbalanced. Slight, as if his edges and surfaces have eroded. He feels raw and unprotected. It’s strange.

So he’s wedged himself into this corner and wrapped himself in his cardigan plus one of the many blankets in the house. This one’s a pale rose-grey, plush and soft; it looks pale and colorless in the spare light of the night. The vineyard around him is all greyscale; the wind makes flickering shadows that catch in Aziraphale’s peripheral vision.

He’s tired. He’s so very tired. It’s been a while since he went an entire evening without sleep, and then two conversations that each took everything he had to offer. God, he wants sleep.

It’s a few days past the full moon, and it’s still bright out here on the porch. Aziraphale shifts, and then brings his legs up onto the bench so that he can tuck his chin into his knees and wrap his arms around. There’s a bright star in the sky he thinks is a planet - Jupiter? Saturn? - he’d read something about it in the local paper just a while ago; some stellar opportunities accompanying the full moon. It seems ominous. He shivers.

Aziraphale wants to wonder how he came to this, although he knows; he knows. This trip has cracked him open like an egg; broken him like a vase. And yet it’s a break that will heal better, he already knows: like those vessels rebuilt with gold mending their damaged edges. Or, he hopes so.

What does he _want._

Somehow out here in the darkness, under an almost-full moon and the light of at least one bright planet - in this midnight of greys - Aziraphale lets himself consider it. Here in the middle of this faery-land, shadows flickering around him and cool wet wind touching his face, Aziraphale lets himself think without boundaries.

What does he want?

He wants to write the way he has been. He wants to write that book - the one that’s the story of himself and Crowley; the one that tells the tale of how A.Z. Fell _fell_ in love with California wine country. He wants to write other books in this style: this lovely stream of language pouring from him now that there’s a crack in the dam. He wants to write about whatever bursts from his fingertips. He wants to write that book about fresh bread and goat cheese; he wants to write an entire novel about Crowley’s Old Vine Zinfandel, the story of the vines from their planting date through today; the story of a vine in the vineyard, moving from slow hibernation to budburst through tempering into blossoming and fruit set — all the phases he’s watched them go through, at Crowley’s side. He wants to see where this new tidal wave of words can take him.

He wants to continue writing his blog, too: he _loves_ his blog, replying at random to real people who have commented on his posts with whatever story or insight they have to share. But he wants it to be _his_ blog again. He wants to be able to talk about strengths and weaknesses - professionally, of course; he isn’t a monster - and he doesn’t want to have to go through and edit and add strings for search engines to improve his _statistics._ He wants to share his experiences online, and he does want to ‘build readership’, but he doesn’t want to do it that way. He likes the communications, the interactions — he wants that kind of blog again.

Aziraphale does want to continue to make reasonable money. Honestly, he doesn’t actually need all of the salary he’s getting from FTA; it’s built him up a nice savings, but it isn’t like he needs that much to be comfortable. He isn’t ready to throw himself into unemployment, that’s all. And Warlock - dear, angry Warlock who has certainly tied his own fate to Aziraphale’s star - he wants to keep making enough that he can pay Warlock what he’s worth. (And then some. He does realize, after tonight, that he absolutely has not been aware of all of the ways Warlock has been _working_ for him.)

He doesn’t want to be rich, no. But he does want to choose some sort of option that lets him do - hmm - lets him have these kinds of opportunities, occasionally. A few months somewhere new: something more substantial than a long weekend; a real chance to experience a culture’s flavors. Being - well - ah - successful? - enough to be able to do that occasionally is suddenly very important to him. He doesn’t want to go back to being barely able to afford his own flat. That’s just right out.

Aziraphale tilts his head so that his cheek rests against his knee. He looks up at the stars. He’s never really studied the night sky; it’s beautiful, sure, but it isn’t the kind of thing you can touch and taste, a thing he can smell and feel and put into his own mouth: Aziraphale cannot consume the stars and make their atoms a part of what he is. He’s a creature of the short-term: he wants immediate feedback, with as many of his senses as he can possibly involve.

It makes him think of Crowley. Not that Crowley has anything against instant gratification, really; Aziraphale’s seen and felt and tasted him with that desperate urgency on his lips, yes. But Crowley plays a longer game: watching those vines as they slowly bud and grow and set, year after long year, making changes that may not be seen for months and months. The wines themselves: aging two, three, four years in that basement; Crowley having to wait three years to taste one change. How does he do it?

Crowley would like the stars, Aziraphale thinks. Crowley would like to watch them, small infinitesimal changes over the course of a night, a week, a month.

He wants Crowley. It isn’t hard to admit it, out here, black sky above, the unrelenting gaze of the stars at his back.

Aziraphale stands up. He kicks off his slippers. He wraps the blanket around his shoulders and steps off the porch.

With the full moon, he can see his way through the vineyard that surrounds the house. Aziraphale chooses a row and starts walking. He pauses frequently, to touch a leaf, or to check the cluster of grapes. Some of them are just starting to ripen, their pale green skins showing faint tints of rose, red, maybe burgundy. The vineyard is still unsaturated under the moon; Aziraphale doesn’t trust his eyes to properly identify the colors. Still, he can see the regions on each grape that are slowly starting to darken.

Aziraphale plucks one off and puts it in his mouth. He knows these grapes are too tart unripe, but he enjoys the shock of it, that sour tang that ends with just a hint of the sweetness that’s to come. It rings quietly in his mouth, a sparkling tone that fades off into the moonlight like the rest of the winery.

He wants Crowley. And that may mean distance, travel, long weekends; Aziraphale’s apartment in LA is nearly a six-hour drive from the Russian River Valley. He assumes he’ll need to stay in Los Angeles, make new publishing connections if FTA isn’t willing to meet his —

Aziraphale stops, freezing, with the echo of a grape in his mouth and his hand resting on the bark of a vine. His _demands?_ Who the _hell does he think he is?_ He can’t make demands of FTA. Gabriel will — Gabriel will.

That softly blooming place in Aziraphale’s head opens, protective petals spreading.

Gabriel is …What if Gabriel wasn’t his boss. What if Gabriel went away? What if, for one moment, Aziraphale could throw off the weight of his worry and fear of Gabriel’s reactions, like dropping the blanket from his shoulders and letting it pool on the ground. What if, just in this moonlit moment, Aziraphale could admit to himself that his panic and fear around Gabriel aren’t …healthy? Aziraphale thinks about it. Turns the situation around; imagines Gabriel treating Warlock like that. Or _Crowley._ His spine bristles up in righteous anger at that, and that’s —

_Oh._

Aziraphale breathes out slowly through pursed lips.

Well, that’s suddenly as clear as glass. Aziraphale’s breath is coming faster, harder, as he thinks about all the things he’s done for Gabriel, all of the ways that Content Manager Fucking Gabriel has used him - abused him, even - and how what Gabriel wants isn’t what Aziraphale actually wants, at all. Gabriel has been putting him down since the first day he signed on. Gabriel has made Aziraphale so afraid of his reactions that Aziraphale panics every time they speak. Gabriel has him wound up so tight that he hurt Crowley badly, deeply, because he couldn’t control his _reactions_ around Gabriel. He hurt Crowley, and like Crowley said, it wasn’t even the matter at hand — it’s the way Aziraphale always jumps, because he’s scared to make Gabriel upset, because when Gabriel is upset he makes Aziraphale feel like his only worth is his ability to occasionally output forty words per minute.

“Well,” Aziraphale whispers out loud to the vines. “He is a right bloody bastard, isn’t he.”

Of course nothing responds, but something inside of him shifts. It’s _terrifying,_ telling these things to the moonlit vines, but it’s almost _cathartic_.

“I won’t continue working for Gabriel,” Aziraphale says, as a test, his voice so small and faint it’s barely more than a whisper. He waits. Nothing happens around him save the breeze that runs through, gently overturning the grape leaves to show their paler bellies for a moment before they settle in place again.

“I want to write my own book and my own blog,” Aziraphale murmurs, a bit louder. He tugs the blanket around himself; digs his toes into the soil. “If they’re willing to let me do that, fine, but if not, I’ll…”

He trails off. It’s so, so hard to say it. It goes against nearly every principle Aziraphale has been following for years — but it rings true in his bones.

“I’ll leave FTA,” he announces to the grapes. It’s daring; thrilling; exhilarating. “I’ll _leave._ I’ll, well, um, I’ll work with Warlock, and I’ll go off on my own, and find somewhere else to publish my book.”

The grapevines rustle in the wind, as if giving silent applause.

“And I’ll,” he continues, feeling oddly bolstered out here, feet in the soil and moonlight on his face. “I’ll. Er. I’ll tell Crowley that I’m in — that I want to try. Truly. I’ll ask Crowley to … to be my … partner? Hm. I’ll need a better term. But either way.”

The night sky has no suggestions. Aziraphale may have to write it out of himself: sit down before the keyboard and let his mind reach out through his fingers, the same way the book he wants has been written. If he lets himself write it, the words will come, from whatever vast mist of inspiration he’s unlocked inside of him.

It’s this life, Aziraphale realizes. This life, here in wine country: this fake little life he and Warlock have made for themselves, with Warlock’s friends nearby and Crowley down the road and good food everywhere. Inspiration around every corner. It’s this life, here, that opened that door.

Aziraphale is suddenly exhausted, but in a strangely comfortable way. Good heavens, he’s been awake for over thirty-six hours at this point. He’s done a good deal of his thinking; he’s whispered his secrets into the vineyard. He thinks this time, at least, he may be able to sleep.

———

Aziraphale sleeps until _noon._ Heavens. It would be embarrassing, really, were anyone but Warlock here to see him. Warlock has his tea waiting, and some fresh fruit, and sits to keep Aziraphale company until his breakfast is finished.

Aziraphale tells Warlock what he wants.

Warlock’s eyes light up. It’s strange; Aziraphale had never noticed that passion before, that steel strength Warlock has inside him — until yesterday. Now he can’t fail to see it, this young man desperate to do a good job. All things Aziraphale knows seem turned upside-down, somewhat.

He leaves Warlock to review his documents and make his plans and build their options.

He brings his trusty tablet out to the deck, because he feels like he has a lot of things he wants to get out of his head and into its pages.

He picks up his mobile to reach out to Crowley, to see where he is and what he’s doing; to make plans.

Aziraphale feels …nothing more complicated than a faint sense of very significant relief.

He feels like a grape on the verge of ripening, just beginning to darken and come into its own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I have been VERY BUSY otherwise and have a few things to share with you:
> 
>   * [Sev Writes A Novel](https://forms.gle/fqw1kYaX12Kq96UH8) \- a short poll about what you'd like to see in the book I'm planning to write. Many of you have seen this already, but if you haven't, I'd love your opinion.
>   * [ \-- There's now a Discord for Old Vines](https://discord.gg/4C5vEGQ), and for my other projects! IT'S LIVE, FRIENDS... end me
>   * As always, hook up with me anywhere [here](https://sevdrag.carrd.co/) (im back on twitter), or check out other stuff I'm doing that you can get involved with [here](https://seventhe.dreamwidth.org/434272.html)!
> 

> 
> please let me know what you think; i really hope you all enjoyed this chapter, because it was so difficult. I eagerly await your thoughts.  
> 


	16. Veraison

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Veraison:
>
>> In viticulture, veraison (French: véraison, IPA: [veʁɛzɔ̃]) is the onset of the ripening of the grapes. The official definition of veraison is _"change of color of the grape berries"_. Veraison represents the transition from berry growth to berry ripening, and many changes in berry development occur at veraison.
> 
> [wikipedia]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WHAT THE FUCK HAS IT BEEN A MONTH???? IM SO SORRY AAAAAAAAA PLZ STILL BE READING
> 
> this chapter. This Chapter! THIS CHAPTER YALL. Anyone who's been holding off reading until things are resolved: _you're safe now._ Read, enjoy, and yell at me. 
> 
> there is smut in this chapter! there are emotions all over the smut, too, so if you're skipping it, I'll sum it up in the end note. 
> 
> So I am in fact planning to do NaNoWriMo - my first novel, y'all! - but you should see the writing schedule I've set for myself. Old Vines will be finished by the end of the year. (Cue weeping! Oh my god!) Despite the LOOMING BEAST that is NaNo, I'm aiming for the weekend of 6-8 November for Chapter 17! 
> 
> I HOPE YOU'RE ALL STILL THERE. I LOVE YOU. COMMENTS PLEEASEE

Rain at this point in the summer is rare; most of the weather blowing into the Russian River Valley is calmed by the sea, nothing more than fog and mist, maybe a brief spell of humidity. This particular spell probably won’t last longer than fifteen minutes, but it’s a beautiful thing because it’s so unusual: the dark-grey of the sky, with that bell-chime blue at the horizon, sun shining in the distance. Crowley’s always felt profoundly confused by this kind of weather in an almost spiritual sense. When there’s rain falling upon you from above, yet you can look into the sky and see the streaks of sunlight through clouds: what on earth is that? Is there some kind of wall, some boundary, a division between the brief storm and the sunsky? Or do they gently fade into each other? How is he supposed to feel, with the ominous darkness above him and sunlight just out of reach?

It’s veraison. Crowley may hate every phase of the cycle of his vineyard, but veraison he’s happy to pretend to actually like. It’s nothing but gorgeous: soft tones of violet and red and pink creeping up in the Zinfandel and the Pinot Noir; shades of yellow translucency bursting in the Chardonnay and the Sauvignon Blanc. There’s something about the colors, the way Crowley wishes he could paint himself with a brush of the same: that concord purple developing out of dark rose like a bruise, the way the bright green of nodules fades into visual softness. He’s out in the rain because he doesn’t have a lot of chances to do so, here; the Russian River Valley’s rains are as brief as they are sporadic.

But now, wrapped in his hoodie and cutoff denims - hood over his head but face turned up to the sky - Crowley stands in the midst of his old vines and prays for something to wash away.

He’s here because he doesn’t have to think about the future when he’s here, the soles of his feet crawling in the dirt. He can look up into the rain - letting it fall onto the mask of his sunglasses - and he doesn’t have to consider the future at this moment. Veraison is a moment of quiet: letting the grapes slowly and brilliantly display what progress they’ve made this year; basking in it, well in sight of the end, as the colors mature and ripen.

This is the fruit of his labor; this is the art he has made with his hands.

Crowley feels a bit silly, really. In the pause of veraison - that breath before the chaos of harvest - it’s like everything else is stripped away. The only important thing right now is the color of the grapes: watching, documenting, getting enough photos on his mobile to be able to compare them to last year’s ripening. It’s a wait. A glorious one, considering the firework-fall of the grapes through translucency into shadowed depths, ripened with juice ready to bursting — but a wait nonetheless.

The rain’s gently pattering against Crowley’s cheeks. Even now, out in the middle of the Old Vine Zin, the rain’s starting to taper off. Crowley feels a bit ridiculous, but really, that’s why he’s out here.

Over the last few days, Crowley’s come to feel almost like he’s blown everything out of proportion — that he’s been too dramatic, sent things into the realm of too much meaning like he always does. How does he really dare get off telling Aziraphale to work his own career out, when Crowley’s sitting here with the offer of a lifetime in his lap and no true idea which way to turn? He shouldn’t have blamed Aziraphale for anything; his reaction was understandable, given the weird context of that morning. Crowley’s really no better. How can he ask Aziraphale to come back to this table with some kind of permanent decision, when Crowley’s still so messily undecided, only starting to see the potential colors in the shadows of this idea?

And yet — Crowley thinks objectively. Squarely. All straight lines and Anathema’s logic, an accounting rather than a reckoning. Crowley doesn’t need any more data to understand how unhealthy Aziraphale’s relationship with his job has become; he’d had suspicions, but having seen it manifest in front of him (in that kitchen; the smell of coffee hasn’t been the same since) and then having talked about it (on his own couch, his own wine on his lips), Crowley sees it now. His ongoing confidence issues may be laced into the _Ecdyses_ logo, but Crowley’s his own man in that: Aziraphale’s lost, buried under layers and layers of abuse, like a fossil, precious shape hidden beneath layers of stone.

It’s different. Crowley can at least come to the table with a sense of himself. His heart aches for Aziraphale. No matter what happens to this thing between them, Crowley will always wish him the best. Aziraphale deserves to break free — this company he’s working for now is stifling him more than they’re challenging him. Crowley doesn’t even have to be a poet to call upon the metaphor of growth. Aziraphale’s trapped; stagnant.

The water from the sky is running off of his sunglasses and down his cheeks. It feels too much like crying, and Crowley’s done crying. Whatever he does now, he’s going to do with confidence; he’s had his sulk and his lecture and his yelling. He’s had moping and tears and lines in a book so tender he’ll never be sure if he really understands it. Veraison, this season: it’s time to see where past decisions have led, and to take stock from there.

———

The Chardonnay goes first, along with the Pinot Noir. Most years go this way: they’re the fastest grapes to ripen overall, and the high density Pinot especially can go from awkward-looking green balls to indigo translucency in the course of a week. Anathema’s on him every year to give tours, with lectures, but Crowley refuses to let people out into the vineyard at this point. They’ve survived budburst and tempering and blossoming and fruit set — why the hell would he let normal dirty people out where they could contaminate his work with their dirty fingers and clumsy shoes. Like fucking _hell,_ Anathema.

Tourists that come during this season seem even more - excited? - than the ones that come earlier. Maybe it’s having harvest on the horizon like a big fat blood moon; there’s something about the approach that’s undoubtedly appealing. Crowley draws the line again for tours, but allows Anathema to gather a few bunches of grapes every morning, so that she can show the visitors what it looks like when the product of a year’s work starts to ripen and come into its own. He’ll never get over how _awed_ people can be; poor city slickers, sent into raptures over the way the grapes darken like a bruise. Then again, Crowley had been one of them, before; people in glass houses, and so on.

And there’s a day when Crowley’s coming up from the basement, four bottles of wine in his arms, trying not to trip on the lace hem of his skirt, and — Aziraphale’s sitting at the bar. He seems to be idly - nervously - doodling into his notebook, and the way his head jerks up as Crowley approaches the bar is oddly endearing. Even after all of this. Even after all this time.

Crowley sets the bottles down on the bar and waves at Newt to come collect them. “Angel,” he says in greeting, and he isn’t sure whether he’s relieved or appalled to hear the same note of fondness in his voice as always.

“Hello, Crowley,” says Aziraphale. He’s wearing a mint-green shirt Crowley remembers from somewhere, with a chocolate leather waistcoat over; the sleeves are rolled up, and two buttons have been undone below the collar. Crowley’s not an idiot. There won’t ever be a day that he isn’t struck all over with the fact that Aziraphale’s the most beautiful man he’s ever seen in his life.

Crowley can’t help the way the corner of his mouth smirks up, as if it has a mind of its own. “Good to see you here,” he says, his voice low and intimate, and he isn’t sorry about that either. The thing is, nothing has to be forever. Nothing is, ever, forever. The vines bloom and grow and fruit and ripen and hibernate, and they come back to do the same thing next spring; it’s ongoing, but it isn’t stagnant at all. Aziraphale’s had enough stagnancy in his life. Crowley wants to bring him something bright, instead. It’s almost freeing, having let go of what’s happening with them; Crowley wants to reach out and touch Aziraphale’s face.

He comes back from his musings to see Aziraphale blushing and ducking his head. “I’m — I’m glad,” he stammers, and Crowley lets his grin go wide, amused. “I thought, maybe, we could start here.” Aziraphale glances up, mouth soft in a tentative smile. “Like the old days.”

“Right,” Crowley announces, and goes digging in the bin of opens until he finds his Apocalypse. If they’re having this moment, they’re doing it right, it seems. He pours Aziraphale a healthy glass, then follows for himself, and leaves the bottle sitting in the space between the two of them.

“Hm.” The sound Aziraphale makes is almost a chuckle. “Right, my dear. How was your day?”

Crowley groans, audibly, dramatically. “Oh, angel, no, a disaster. Too many tourists, earlier, all of them banging on to get a tour of the winery. Children - actual bloody children - in my own tasting room? Look, it’s been actual hell in here, if you’re curious.”

Aziraphale laughs. “Oh, darling, you’re always so dramatic. Business is business, is it not?”

Crowley wants to grin, blazingly. Instead all he does is smiles - a quick smirk of the lips - as he tops off Aziraphale’s glass. “Oh, angel,” he drawls, “let me tell you stories.”

———

Three hours later, the bar’s closed, and it’s just Crowley behind it and Aziraphale on the other side; they’re both half leaned over, elbows touching. Crowley’s simmering with it: it’s a closeness they haven’t had in a while. Fuck, but he’s missed Aziraphale: he isn’t ready to just roll over the hurt like a bus heading to its destination, no, but there’s a lovely level of comfort standing here pouring his flavors for the angel. As if nothing else had happened — but Crowley knows now that this angle of thinking wipes out both the good and the bad, because it wipes out any progress they’ve made. Have they? Crowley’s always been clumsy with these kinds of feelings, sure, but he’s sort-of gotten tired of moving through life pretending everything is fine and then hoping that saying it aloud makes it true.

It isn’t pretending that nothing ever happened. It’s acknowledging it and then moving on. Moving forward, to the next step in the cycle. Crowley wonders whether Aziraphale would be interested in seeing the veraison; he’s allowed in the vines, at least. Even if fruit set fucks up - even if there’s grape shatter and he loses half the crop - there’s still half remaining that he can do something with.

“So,” Aziraphale says, slowly and tentatively, as if he’s expecting to be turned down. “I’ve done some pretty substantial thinking, if you’re interested.”

Crowley makes his friendliest noise as he’s jerked out of his own musings. “Talk to me,” he says, immediately, because the last thing he wants is for Aziraphale to think he’s not interested. “I want to hear it.”

“Warlock is a darling,” Aziraphale starts, with a regretful little smile. “He’s worth three times what I pay him. As soon as this - these things - resolve themselves, I’m giving him a raise, and he’d better accept this one.”

Crowley reaches for a new bottle. They’ve had nothing but Apocalypse and he isn’t going to have it any other way. Newt and Nath had taken home some of the other opens; this is for them, for him and for Aziraphale.

“I guess it may not surprise you, after having met him that, er, morning, but I’ve decided I’m no longer working with Gabriel.” Aziraphale dabs at his lips with some little handkerchief he’s pulled out of somewhere. It’s probably got his initials embroidered on it somewhere. Fuck, only Crowley would fall for an idiot with monogrammed handkerchiefs. He needs better taste.

Crowley makes a noise, wanting to acknowledge but not wanting to interrupt. When the silence drifts on, he offers, “Seems like a good idea, angel. If I hadn’t been so...” Well. What does one call it? Surprised? Fucked up? _Heartbroken?_ “If I hadn’t been so distracted I might have punched his stupid face for the way he was talking to you. In retrospect I’m kind of sad I didn’t.”

“Lord, that wouldn’t have helped anything,” Aziraphale says, although he’s laughing, a little. “I had nearly had three heart attacks by then - one when the phone rang, one when I opened the door, and one when you walked in - I might have just keeled over.”

“Lucky for you,” Crowley drawls with just the right amount of panache, “I restrained myself,” and they both laugh.

And maybe this is it: dancing around that morning, keeping everything light, acknowledging it without dragging it out or digging in? Maybe this is how things heal and grow. Crowley’s slightly out of breath; he’s never done this kind of shit before. He feels vaguely adult, and then feels fully ridiculous for it because he’s an old man eleven years into a career, for fuck’s sake.

“Anyway,” Aziraphale continues. “I told Warlock that I’ll no longer work with Gabriel, that I want control over my blog back, and that I’ll be writing _my_ book, and if they don’t want it, they can, well…” His mouth twists. “Warlock had a couple clever turns of phrase, I’ll tell you that much.”

“Go fuck themselves?” Crowley asks cheerfully, hoisting himself up to sit on the counter. His skirt’s long: dark denim, stylishly worn in places, with ragged black lace falling from the bottom hem and lining the slits up both sides. He thinks it’s delightful; hopefully Aziraphale will as well. Crowley tugs it around until he can sprawl back on the counter to actually look at Aziraphale. “Sit on a post and spin? Eat shit and die? I can continue, angel, just say the word.”

“I’m not sure who’s worse,” Aziraphale murmurs, “you or Warlock.”

“We could have a contest,” Crowley suggests.

Aziraphale makes a little indecipherable noise and has some wine. “Anyway. Warlock’s combing the contract now, and he’s going to make the first steps in negotiation tomorrow. And I know I’m going to be a nervous wreck.” He takes a deep breath, and breathes it out slowly; Crowley watches as his shoulders relax and sink, deliberately. “And I thought before I got into all of that I owed you a conversation as well.”

Crowley’s heart speeds up. “Not owed, angel,” he says gently. “Never owed.”

“Well.” Aziraphale shifts, drinks again, meets his eyes. “I wanted to talk to you, then.” Then, added on hastily: “Is that a better way to put it? I confess, my dear, I’m new to this …honest sort of language.” He swallows. “It feels …demanding.”

Crowley feels his chest clench. Oh, _Aziraphale._ “Not demanding, either,” he says, still gentle; oh, angel. “And not _wrong._ You don’t owe me anything, Aziraphale. Not ever.” Self-confident, he might have said, were he a little more self-confident himself. Oh, fuck, they’re such messes. How do they even fit?

Aziraphale smiles, a bit wobbly, and then starts speaking; it’s as if he’s prepared a speech in his head, for this, and Crowley’s heart clenches again. “It’s a bit new to me to be … sure enough … to consider my own wants alongside another’s. Before another’s, even. I’ve lived a life of quiet, being talked over and ignored. And I’m trying, now, but I shan’t apologize for who I am, now, even if it isn’t much.” Aziraphale swallows and looks into his glass of wine. “I’m done apologizing for myself,” he says quietly, and Crowley isn’t even really sure whether or not he was supposed to hear that last bit.

He stays quiet. His eyes are fixed on the side of Aziraphale’s face. His heart’s pounding; _fuck,_ this hurts worse than anything. Watching Aziraphale realize just how far he’s been beaten down hurts Crowley worse than any throwaway declaration about their friendship ever should have. God. Fuck. He feels like he knew, somewhat, but he’d never guess at this _much._

“I will apologize, again, for that morning,” Aziraphale continues. He glances up at Crowley, through worried lashes, and then back down into his glass. “It isn’t for the words, exactly, or the response — although I _am_ sorry for that. What I’m truly sorry for, my dear boy, is letting things get to that point. Winding myself up so tightly that I was unable - I refused - to give you a single inch more than I had deemed appropriate.” Aziraphale sighs. “I’m sorry for it all, but more than anything, I apologize for the entire situation.”

Crowley bites his lip. His chest feels tight, as if he’s going to cry, or as if his body is thinking about it. He drains his entire wineglass to stall for time. He doesn’t want to say _It’s alright_ , because it isn’t for either of them; he doesn’t want to say _no big deal,_ because this - this talk - this is a big deal. “Apology accepted,” he says, finally, hoping that it’s the right thing to say. “Heard and acknowledged, Aziraphale. Forgiven.” He finds he’s nodding as he says it. “Thing of the past.”

He has to hop down from the counter to reach the bottle. As he tops his glass off, he hears Aziraphale breathe, “Thank you.”

That near-crying feeling swells up again in his chest and bodies are so fucking stupid. Why does he have one. Crowley nods instead and passes the bottle across the bar.

There’s a bit of a pause, as Aziraphale fills his glass. The air is poignant, as if the next few words uttered will spell prophecy. Crowley drinks and swallows loudly, trying to break the mood a bit.

“I want,” Aziraphale begins, and there’s a brief moment when he looks down into his glass. When he lifts his head, his eyes are blazing, and Crowley’s heart skips a couple beats. “I want you, Crowley,” Aziraphale says, and Crowley’s whole body freezes up, clenching with the force of too many emotions, like a car stalling out. “I want to be with you, however that may pan out for us. I want to be _us._ On the same side, as it were. I don’t think—” and here Aziraphale ducks his head, his voice sounding suspiciously tight. “I don’t think people like me get the chance to have something like this all that often,” he continues, “and I’m not interested in abandoning it, if you will.”

Crowley can’t breathe. Why is this shit so. Fucking. Hard. He’s hurting right alongside Aziraphale’s hurts. Watching Aziraphale struggle is like being sliced open with a dinner knife. Crowley doesn’t really like it.

“I’m better when I’m with you,” Aziraphale says softly, and then before Crowley’s heart can melt entirely: “but that isn’t fair to you, is it? You don’t exist for me to have some kind of prompt to make myself better for. No, I should be better on my own.” His hand slides across the counter. “So that I can give it to you as a gift, my dear. Rather than some effect you’ve been the cause of.”

_That_ makes him unfreeze, unbend, reaching out over the bar to grab Aziraphale’s hand. “I don’t need you to be better,” he insists, because _fuck_ but his heart’s breaking. “You’re enough, angel.”

“Be that as it may,” Aziraphale says, and his eyes are wet. “I’d like to be nonetheless.”

“Shit.” Crowley scrubs at his face with both hands. He’s not fucking crying. “Angel. Stop beating yourself up. I’m the disaster with attachment issues. I’m barely…” _Barely worth you_ , his mouth was about to say, but somehow Crowley knows that isn’t the right thing to say right now.

“We are what we are.” Aziraphale’s voice is surprisingly even and steady. “And I’ll have you anyway, if you still…”

“I still,” Crowley blurts out. It’s incredibly uncool. “Angel, jesus, Christ. This wasn’t even a fight. Of course I still.”

“Not for you,” Aziraphale says quietly. “But consider it the start of something life-changing for _me,_ if you would, please.”

That sinks in. That’s right; Crowley hadn’t, at all, ever meant to be that kind of burden to Aziraphale. He didn’t want to be the cause of anyone’s life-altering revelations, because that might include revelations about him, too, the kind he likes to avoid. And yet he can’t really be _sorry_ that something about it made Aziraphale open his eyes and realize just how much _more_ he could be? Which is just dumb, because to Crowley, he’s everything. God, he’s writing fucking poetry in his head now. Poetry with contradictions. Fuck.

Some of this sinks in, and Crowley realizes he wants to tell Aziraphale about his own - thing - about Adam, and Anathema, and their offer. But he isn’t sure whether this is the time to; is he interrupting? Is he changing the subject because he doesn’t like talking about feelings? Are there any rules for this kind of shit? (What are birds, anyway? _We just don’t know._ )

“Alright,” he says, finally, unsure of what else to say. Of _course_ he still wants Aziraphale. It feels like he’s wanted Aziraphale since the second Crowley laid eyes on him, sipping at Chardonnay with his eyelids fluttering shut. Everything that’s happened between them has only made Crowley want more, with grabby hands and greedy fingers, and even this? The way they’re talking now, coming together after a small upset, it’s soothing to Crowley, as if he finally has a safe space to just be.

“You don’t have to say anything else,” Aziraphale tells him, fond. He reaches again for Crowley’s hands, squeezing at them, his thumbs rubbing over Crowley’s knuckles. “This doesn’t have to be big. I should probably head home, to be quite honest, it’s getting late and I’m sure you want to close up.” He chuckles, and Crowley clutches at Aziraphale’s hands. It doesn’t have to be big, but it is, because it’s them; his heart is just now starting to beat.

“Whatever you want, angel,” Crowley says, and it rings out of his throat like a bell.

“Why don’t I come back tomorrow,” Aziraphale suggests, giving Crowley’s spindle-fingers one last squeeze before hopping down off of the stool. “We can do this just like we did before. Like the old days.”

“Old days,” Crowley grumbles, although he can’t keep from smiling. “Angel, the ‘old days’ were like … a month ago.”

“Hmmm,” Aziraphale says, and then he’s gone, leaving Crowley with the impression of a brilliant besotted smile that seems to have frozen him in place once again.

———

Crowley doesn’t go in immediately the next day. Instead, he goes out to bang around in his garden, because he needs to think, and he can’t think if he _focuses_ on the thinking — so he gardens instead.

The weeds are making headway, as usual. The garden’s set up to water itself every morning for twenty minutes on a system Crowley cobbled together from a hose with holes in it and a really old timer; vegetables need more constant watering than grapes do, and the plot he has gets a bit too much sun in August for some of his plants. The weeds encroach on the garden all the time, and his tomatoes and cucumbers and snap peas and zucchini do _not_ need the competition, thank you very much. He lets himself in the gate and kneels down into the cool dirt, enjoying the sun beating down on his back. He’s wearing a tank top whose straps might be considered strings, because August in the Russian River Valley is hot as hell, and he likes the feeling of the sun on his skin.

Too many fucking weeds near his line of herbs. That’s not cool.

So what if he takes the money? Sure, _Ecdyses_ isn’t entirely his anymore, but isn’t that a good thing? Like, how long can Crowley expect to successfully run this thing on his own, fuck-up that he is? He’d still _own_ it, sure, and he’d get better input from a number of people he actually trusts, in a way they’re accountable for too. The more the merrier, right? Share the load? Send Anathema to deal with Hastur and Ligur finally? That mental image alone is almost worth selling an acre off for cash right now.

But isn’t that just …jumping at a solution to get out of this hole? Shit, there are _a lot of things_ Crowley would do to get away from Hell Law. Lots. Things he doesn’t even want to say out loud in the privacy of his basil. Which is growing like it’s possessed, mind you. He carefully pinches off a series of leaves - some bigger and some smaller - and lets the scent of it stain his fingers and waft through the heat. Yeah, you’re supposed to do your garden work early in the morning, Burpee go fuck yourself. Crowley’s busy; he’ll garden when he has time, or when he’s trying to avoid something. Anyway. He’d …sell and barter a lot of things to get out from under H.E.L. Shit, Satan’s around, looking for souls? Crowley’s not really using his, it’s pretty dinged up and the bumper’s got a dent from that time he fell from grace, but hey, it’s gotta be worth something, right?

So he needs to consider this long-term — does he want to have partners? One day, Crowley tells the tomatoes, which are getting way too tall and need to be pinched off on the top so that the existing buds don’t dry out. One day Hell Law will be gone, anyway, no matter what he does. What’s he want, then? Does he want to drag his _friends_ into this with him? Does he want to grow a team, organically, the way he’s currently fertilizing all of these cucumbers? It sounds nice, and for a moment, Crowley imagines a world where he actually has someone at his back. A partner, really; someone he can count on.

But that means… sharing _Ecdyses._ On the surface it isn’t a bad thing at all - in fact, just looking at numbers and facts and data, it’s clearly the winning idea - but _Ecdyses_ is a part of Crowley’s soul. It’s the bandage over the big gaping wounds he carried here from London; it’s the scar tissue holding those gaps together. _Ecdyses_ is how Crowley healed himself, and when it’s something that personal, it’s like …showing everyone the scab that just came off. Somehow. What the _fuck,_ is this an aphid on his cabbage? He’s going to burn this entire garden down.

He can’t share this place. For eleven goddamned years he’s been holding on to it with his fingernails, keeping Hell Law’s dirty paws off of it. He can’t share it. It’s too much. He has to take _care_ of these people; they’re his employees, his to watch over and protect from the stupid banking world. He can’t let them become a part of that. He’s the buffer, the wall in-between, so that they can continue to work at the winery and have all of the good parts without having to deal with any of the bad.

Hmm, a bunch of his roma tomatoes are ripe, along with some hot peppers. He could make salsa. The cilantro has exploded, anyway, it’s not a bad idea. He can send some home with Anathema. He’s gonna have to pick the cilantro anyway. Cilantro and basil by the handful, well: it’s time to make some fresh salsa and caprese salads, apparently. He can’t just let is continue to grow; herbs have to be tended just like vines do, leaves pinched off so that the plant can focus on making new ones.

But don’t they deserve it, too? Anathema and Newt have been with him for a long time, and they put as much of their lives into it every year as Crowley does. Adam and The Them started off as a service, sure, but they’re all popping in and out of the back rooms more often than not, these days. Haven’t they earned the right to be considered? To put a bit of their money, of their selves, into this place where Crowley’s been slowly rooting himself over the last eleven years? There’s room for more than one kind of vine, here. There’s enough acreage for all of them.

But it means Crowley has to pry his fingers out of this dry dusty heart. It means he has to let enough of it go to be _worth_ them, his employees, who want to become his coworkers in no uncertain terms. Not entirely equals - he’ll still own it - but equal enough. On the same page. _On the same side,_ he thinks, his mouth sliding into a somewhat sappy smile as he thinks about Aziraphale.

He’s picked an entire pile of pea pods into his shirt - the hem held up in his other hand, making a shallow basket out of the fabric - before Crowley realizes he’s just daydreaming about Aziraphale now and comes back to himself with an insulted huff.

———

“So, angel,” Crowley says, later that evening. The tasting room is humming, a few couples here and there enjoying a glass of their favorites in private; Aziraphale’s been writing in the back for about an hour, sipping at a glass of Judith. As much as Crowley wants to joke about the ‘old days’, as Aziraphale had phrased it, there’s something very comforting about him being there, existing again in this space like he’s a part of it. It’s like some leak from Crowley’s brain - which has been hissing for days, a low white noise in the background - has suddenly been plugged and silenced. He’s felt more settled all evening just seeing Aziraphale there, and now Crowley’s sitting across from him, with a new bottle of Cup of Demons open and airing itself on the table between them.

Aziraphale murmurs, “Yes, dear?” He looks up from his notebook, where he’s been taking notes on something. Crowley wonders how much of that book - that incandescent, glorious prose - how much of it was written here in his winery? He can’t help the flush rising on his cheeks. Did Aziraphale write some of it - certain parts of it - while watching Crowley back there behind the tasting bar? He’ll have to ask, some day.

“So I, uh.” Crowley rubs a hand on the back of his neck, his fingers getting tangled in the bottom of his messy bun; he rips the hair tie out, letting his curls fall down. The weight hits in between his shoulder blades, solid, and he tosses it a bit before pulling it over his left shoulder. “I’ve got a sort of a situation to tell _you_ about, angel.”

“Oh!” Aziraphale sounds surprised, and a little - bothered isn’t the word? Shocked? - as he closes the notebook and slides it to the side. “Darling, of course, whatever you have to say, I’m listening.”

_Oh._ Crowley chuckles and can’t help the way he reaches across the table, letting his hand rest over Aziraphale’s fingers. This is his to do; he can still reach, he can still touch. “Not about - nothing big - okay, well, it’s, ajhhhh, it’s big, but nothing about this, angel. No.” He squeezes Aziraphale’s hand. “Unrelated. We’re good.”

“We’re good,” Aziraphale repeats, and the way his smile turns to Crowley, nearly beaming, is almost too much.

Crowley ducks his head and makes some kind of noise that has a lot of _mmm_ in it. “Yeah. Ngk. Anyway. Told you about the loans here, remember?” Aziraphale makes a noise in agreement, and to Crowley’s surprise, he turns his hand over under Crowley’s until their fingers can intertwine. Crowley’s blush deepens and he hopes Anathema isn’t looking this way, because she’ll be texting him about it for _days._ “Right. Well, they, y’know, Adam and Anathema and the rest of them, they sort of, hnnng, made me an offer?”

“An offer?” Aziraphale straightens his back, and lays the kind of look on Crowley that makes him feel like Aziraphale’s looking into the back of his skull. He tries not to shiver. Aziraphale’s eyes are nearly _twinkling_ as he says, “Well, tell me, dear boy?”

“Right.” Crowley resists the urge to rub a hand down the back of his neck again, mainly because he’d have to pull that hand out of Aziraphale’s to do so; the other one is resting at the base of his wine glass. Why is he nervous? This is stupid. He’s already been so intimate with Aziraphale; and Aziraphale has offered up a lot more of himself, these last few days. He’s so dumb. “So they’ve been, uh, talking, and stuff, and I guess they all have, like. Uh.” He does take his hand off the wine glass, then; runs it through his hair. The weight of it - the way it settles down his back - helps anchor him. “They’ve been talking about investing, here, becoming sort-of partners, I guess. Putting money into the place, making it part theirs as well.” He swallows. “What they got would wipe out some big loans, angel. And they — they _want_ to do it.”

“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale says, and there’s something real in his voice, raw and caring in a way that scrapes Crowley down. “Can you blame them? What you’ve built here is - it’s lovely - it’s something solid, something they want to be a part of. Anyone would want to be a part of this.” Aziraphale laughs, but this one’s more fragile, a little shattered. “Darling, if I had the money, I’d be wanting to be a part of this; don’t doubt it for a second.”

“Wouldn’t that be nice,” Crowley says before he thinks. “Just stay here. Write at the back table, sell your novel, make millions.” His brain catches up with his mouth a second later and he literally jerks in his seat, because that’s totally over the line, isn’t it?

Luckily, Aziraphale just chuckles, even if it’s a bit sad. “If only it were that easy,” he says, and then shakes his own head. “Anyway. The offer?”

“They want to make sure I’m still the owner,” Crowley continues. “Majority share, or whatever. They aren’t looking to buy it out from under me, not like Hell Law. They just want to be a… a part of it?” His voice twists higher, tightening at the end of it. It’s strange, really, how stupidly emotional he is over this. He should be looking at numbers and facts, and yet it’s his heart beating twice every time he considers it.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says gently. “What do you think?” When Crowley doesn’t answer right away, he continues: “I know how loathe you are to share this place, to share yourself. And you certainly don’t have to, my dear boy. But I also know how much they love this place — nearly as much as you do. So, tell me. How do you feel about it?”

Crowley blinks. How does he feel about this? “Scared,” he croaks out, and then is immediately humiliated by the word. He covers it with a long drink from his wine glass.

“That’s okay,” says Aziraphale, squeezing where their fingers are intertwined. “So am I, darling. So am I.”

———

In the end, it doesn’t really take long.

The old vines are just now starting to color and bruise. They usually take a while, yes, but they’d taken so long to fruit set that Crowley had been (secretly) worried that they’d take equally as long to ripen, which would have had dire consequences on the harvest. Luckily, while they’re still displaying an air of stubbornness, they’re at least trying; the hard, opaque green of fruit buds is gentling, fading, translucency sliding through them easily. There are hints of rose on one, cobalt on another; violet and mouth-red, developing just along the curves. They’re like ladies - and gentlemen - dabbing on blush, hints of rouge, a swipe of color on the lips.

An untrained eye might despair, thinking it isn’t enough, but Crowley knows these vines. They are slow to turn but when they ripen they are every shade of color in that veraison rainbow, reds and burgundies and so many shades that darken into that final bruise-blue right before harvest.

It isn’t that Crowley’s so gone he’ll take whatever Aziraphale offers; it’s been proven otherwise, between them, simply from the way everything unfolded from that certain morning. And yet, it isn’t a surprise that Crowley’s willing to have Aziraphale anyway: half-grown, incomplete, just starting to ripen. And like, fuck, what the hell? Crowley takes bigger chances on grape vines every year. That’s his _livelihood_. What is this, his heart? Ha. He doesn’t use that shit anyway.

He runs his fingers along the vines. At this point in the year they’re thrumming, so full of life he feels like he could cut into one and drink from it, sweet nectar pumping into his mouth. It’s a funny concept namely because the grapes are still _vile_ at this point, all sourness and tight skin, but Crowley knows better. There’s gallons of potential there, just beneath the surface, and he’s going to get to watch it come into play. Another year’s worth of anxiety fades into the slight hum of success.

It really isn’t a decision, either. Crowley had had the thought, a long time ago, that there would be steps to this, if it ended up happening. Gradual steps: he and Aziraphale getting closer, again, retracing the places they’d walked initially; rewalking the paths they’d run before. But that isn’t really it, for them. They didn’t come together under an abundance of _being careful._ They came together in spite of - despite - the warning signs. And Aziraphale may have had a moment where he thought they were safer apart, but Crowley knows to his bones this one truth: they will always, always, be better together.

In the end, the phone call isn’t hard to make, after all.

———

Crowley has sauteed zucchini and yellow squash and mushrooms - not his, but still local - with basil and bright dill and white wine, and there are turkey burgers on the grill and buns toasting in the oven and a rice pilaf he’ll serve with the vegetables. The kitchen smells delicious and familiar. Aziraphale’s sitting at his little bar table in the corner, grinning as he picks at the caprese salad Crowley had served first - local mozzarella with his own tomatoes and basil and garlic, and a balsamic he’d had to buy at the grocery, over his own tender little leaf lettuce - and drinking deeply from the glass of Lydia Crowley has refilled three times already. It’s homey and perfect and Crowley thinks maybe he’s never been happier than this single moment. Maybe this is all he needs. His land, his wine, his garden, and thou: Aziraphale, smiling at him across the room, watching with something in his eyes Crowley’s afraid to label but dearly and desperately wants to.

This: feeding Aziraphale. Watching as Aziraphale drinks his wine and eats things grown from his own garden and made by his own hands. A part of Crowley is already teary-eyed, verdant and star-struck; there is meaning in this. On some base and stupid level Crowley doesn’t want anything more out of his life except this: to make for Aziraphale. Gods. He may as well admit he’s fucking head over ass in love already, out loud (in his head, at least), because there’s no other excuse for the way his heart’s tugged across the room every time Aziraphale smiles at him. Fuck, to have a life where all he did was create for his angel? Crowley would live slow and die happy.

Fucking hell. He isn’t even drunk, except on the look Aziraphale’s wearing every time he takes a bite of the salad. A man’s palate should _not_ be that flattering.

The timer on his phone goes off and he gestures at Aziraphale to stay seated at the table as he heads out the back door to pull the burgers off the grill. He’s made four - leftovers are great - and they’re all perfectly cooked. Crowley shovels them onto the plate and turns the grill off; he heads back inside to pull the buns from the oven. He has goat cheese and cheddar slices, which he sets out next to ketchup and mustard and last year’s pickles and big fat slices of his heirloom tomatoes, orange and juicy. It would take him days to eat this feast, but he doesn’t regret making it for Aziraphale at all. It feels like Crowley’s laying his wares out at Aziraphale’s feet as an offering.

(It isn’t about that though; Crowley has little to apologize for, for all that he’s a mess and a disaster. Instead, it’s about reminding Aziraphale that he’s worth these things; making it clear that Crowley will do this for no reason other than he wants to.)

They chatter idly through the meal. Aziraphale has a number of questions about the garden, about the local farmers’ markets, about the cheese - he has a dozen questions about the cheese - and Crowley answers with a full mouth and half-words, sentences stringing themselves together despite his best efforts. Aziraphale has a burger and a half, and two servings of the vegetable-rice mixture, and two glasses of wine. Crowley’s never been prouder in his life; hang this meal up on the fridge, really, he’ll never beat this. He himself almost eats his entire burger and most of the vegetables. For his stomach, that’s a good win.

They clean the meal up together, Crowley putting leftovers into tupperware and plastic while Aziraphale scrubs at dishes in the sink. Crowley gestures for him to leave them all in the drying rack - life is too short to dry dishes when air will do it for you - and they reconvene on the swinging bench right out Crowley’s backdoor, with an open bottle of Magnificat Oak and two glasses.

“Oh,” Aziraphale says, his glass resting on his lower lip. “Fireflies! I didn’t think California had them?”

Crowley smiles. He’s tucked into a corner of the swing, one arm splayed out over the back of the bench and the other holding his wine glass on his thigh. His glasses are off, and dusk is falling. The air is thick, but in a peaceful way, like a blanket thrown over his shoulders. “Yeah, most California fireflies don’t light up, although I don’t know why. But they come out here, occasionally, in the vines. Must be something out there that tastes good.”

“Heavens,” says Aziraphale, nearly a groan. “Everything out here tastes good. I can’t blame them for glowing from it.”

Crowley shoots a quick glance over as Aziraphale settles back against the bench. His fingers trail against Aziraphale’s shoulder, and Crowley wonders whether Aziraphale did it on purpose. There’s something building in him, a yearning growing from his stomach outwards, a flame just starting to burn. It’s been so long since he’s _touched_ Aziraphale. It’s somehow different, now, when they both know what it means.

“You don’t always see them,” Crowley says instead. He’s trying to keep his voice steady, but not to hide anything — their days of hiding are done. Instead, he brushes his fingers against Aziraphale’s shoulder deliberately, as an invitation. “Supposed to be lucky, you know.”

He’s rewarded for the gesture: Aziraphale sighs, heavily, and then sinks backwards into relaxation, curling into Crowley; Crowley’s arm catches along his shoulders and draws him in close. Their thighs press against each other. Aziraphale’s head is nearly on his shoulder. Crowley skims his fingertips down Aziraphale’s arm and then up, tracing the softness of the shirt, the soft strength that lies underneath it.

“Crowley, I,” Aziraphale starts, and there’s something there that’s almost tears. Crowley presses down with the palm of his hand, rubbing gentle circles into Aziraphale’s upper arm.

“Whatever happens,” Aziraphale says _fiercely_ — this is not timid, this is no pushover, this is no flickering firefly light. “Six hour drive, two hour flight: I don’t _care._ Just tell me we’ll try, darling. Tell me we don’t let this end with the summer.”

Crowley’s heart - blackened, scarred, thick with lack of use - cracks open. “No, angel, no,” he whispers, already tugging Aziraphale around to face him. It’s like the pull of gravity, the way he wants to sink into Aziraphale, to press his face beneath that surface and drown in it. “Fuck that. Really. Fuck that, love, no, nothing’s ending here unless we want it, and I sure as fuck don’t want it to.” The words tumble out of his mouth as he pulls Aziraphale to face him, and Crowley can tell by the way Aziraphale’s eyes are widening that he’s let something slip, but at this moment, he doesn’t care, he doesn’t fucking care.

It’s been so long since they’ve kissed. Crowley dips his head down, barely breathing, suddenly afraid to move, and Aziraphale moves the rest of the way until their lips touch. It’s gentle and light; it’s a goddamned electric shock. Some kind of sound escapes Crowley’s throat - part sob, part laugh, entirely feeling - and he dives back in, immediately licking at Aziraphale’s lips as if he’ll die without them. (He just fucking might.) Aziraphale’s voice cracks on something that might be a cry, except that Crowley swallows it; he’ll devour anything that’s going to hurt Aziraphale, now. That’s his job.

Aziraphale’s kissing back, frantic, deep; his lips are tight, like he needs something, and Crowley relaxes his mouth and lets Aziraphale take everything. Aziraphale’s tongue sweeps against his and it’s like nerves he didn’t even know he had are firing, randomly, synapses overwhelmed like the rest of him. Things are sparking alive up and down his neck, at the base of his spine, between his legs, and Crowley feels brand-new with it. It makes sense, really; this is their first time, their first real time, and he wants everything he can get.

He lazily laps into Aziraphale’s mouth as Aziraphale pushes him: his hands are grabbing at Crowley, now, tugging him into place and aligning his pieces and parts to Aziraphale’s satisfaction. Crowley groans, just because it’s a beautiful thing; those hands are pulling and pressing as they land, into fabric and skin alike, and Crowley suddenly and _desperately_ needs more the way that he needs to breathe.

He pulls away from Aziraphale in millimeters, in increments, keeping every part that he can pressed up against his angel. Crowley knows what he’s about to say, knows what it means; it floors him, in a way, because it’s a thing he hasn’t offered to anyone else, and yet he wants to throw it at Aziraphale’s feet and watch it shatter, like a string of pearls breaking free and bouncing around the room.

“Angel,” Crowley breathes, wet and whispering, into Aziraphale’s temple. “My dearest, darling angel.” He pulls back, just to the point where he can look Aziraphale in the eye. Aziraphale’s breathing hard - nearly panting - and his gaze settles into Crowley with the weight of eons. There’s no glancing between his discolored pupils; instead, Aziraphale stares into the core of him, listening with every atom.

Crowley takes a breath, and he only realizes he’s shuddering when he breathes it out slowly.

“Would you - would you like to - come to bed with me?” Crowley asks, holding out a hand.

It must hit Aziraphale - how much this is - how utterly private and personal this is - because he clutches Crowley’s offered hand with something like a vow, something with awe, something like glee hidden between the cracks. They’re finally going to _get_ this. “Are you sure?” Aziraphale asks, but he’s smiling as he asks it, and Crowley’s heart flips over, breaking and mending itself at the same time.

“C’mon, angel,” he says flippantly, standing up and tugging Aziraphale to him. He wraps his arms around Aziraphale, kissing him delightedly, trying to say things he isn’t really sure he has words for. “Pretty rare offer. Like fireflies in California.”

“Well, I’d best accept then,” Aziraphale says gravely. His eyes are twinkling and fond. Crowley’s drowning. Aziraphale cups his cheek in a palm, tugs Crowley down to kiss him again, and again, until both their lips are swollen and Crowley can’t breathe.

———

It’s a short trip upstairs; Crowley’s house isn’t very big. The stairs lead up to a hallway most people don’t get to see. To the right, there’s the small room Crowley uses as his office (a greenhouse of sorts), and then the spare bedroom for when Newt and Anathema get too drunk to go home (another greenhouse of some sort), and straight ahead is the guest bath, simple and neat (orchids currently in the tub). To the left, though, to the left is Crowley’s bedroom, and he opens the door and gestures for Aziraphale to walk in.

It isn’t odd. Crowley’s always thought it would be odd, another body in his very personal space, but Aziraphale walks right in like the room’s offering tea and biscuits, and Crowley’s body suddenly relaxes, as if thinking, _there he is._

Aziraphale glances around, but then turns back to Crowley, and his eyes are _fierce_. The yearning feeling is growing in Crowley’s chest, overwhelming, the need to give and to have simultaneously flooding his senses. He never would have said Aziraphale had a scent, but now he’s drowned in it, as he deftly licks and delicately bites the edge of Aziraphale’s jaw. It’s somehow profound: _I know what you smell like._ His senses have opened up a little chamber where it will live forever.

Aziraphale’s groaning as Crowley works his way down that plush neck, his clumsy fingers already scrabbling at the buttons on Aziraphale’s shirt. Crowley knows better than to tear them off — and that isn’t the way he wants to do this, anyway. One by one, he opens them and follows with his mouth: licking, kissing, breathing it all in. _I know what you smell like._ He’s wrapped in Aziraphale like a blanket.

It isn’t until Crowley feels Aziraphale's palms on his bare chest that he realizes Aziraphale’s beaten him in the button game. Crowley makes an absolutely undignified noise, because Aziraphale’s thumbing at a nipple, and the shock of it goes straight to his cock, already half-hard and aching. Aziraphale chuckles into Crowley’s mouth, having captured it as Crowley looked up, and isn’t that odd: laughing during sex. Being happy with it. Crowley flushes and then makes a much more interesting sound when Aziraphale’s other hand repeats the gesture. Has his chest always been this sensitive? Crowley feels like he’s on fire.

He eventually manages to get Aziraphale’s shirt and waistcoat off - Crowley isn’t exactly sure how - and then it’s his turn to run his fingers along the skin he’s discovered. Aziraphale’s so fucking gorgeous it’s unfair. Crowley palms the curve of his belly, grabbing with both hands, digging his fingers in. He wants to bite it. Aziraphale just closes his eyes, a moan wrenched out of his throat when Crowley leans in to kiss the sensitive spot under his ear.

“C’mon, angel,” Crowley says again, fucking high on it and not caring. “Can I get your pants? Come to bed, Aziraphale.”

Aziraphale’s eyes blaze and then it’s _Crowley_ being backed up across his own room. Aziraphale smirks a bit triumphantly and shoves Crowley backwards, so hard he kind of _bounces_ on the bed and that really shouldn’t be as hot as it was? Crowley has to lie there for a second, catching his breath, and he just watches as Aziraphale unbuttons his stupid unflattering pleated trousers and daintily steps out of them like he’s a model in a changing room. His boxers are tartan. Of fucking course they fucking are. It’s too late, Crowley’s in love with a terrible creature who wears bowties and tartan boxers. He’ll never be cool again.

He can also see the press of Aziraphale’s dick, hard and straining against the fabric, and Crowley swallows as Aziraphale climbs onto the bed.

Crowley loses a bit of time in this haze. Aziraphale presses all of his weight down into Crowley and that’s just fucking _delightful,_ being held in place as they kiss, and kiss. Aziraphale’s skin against his is electric, soft and round against all of his bones and angles; Crowley can’t stop _grabbing_ at it, big handfuls of belly and ass to the point where Aziraphale may be bruised tomorrow — but Aziraphale’s noises are encouraging, the way he mumbles _yes, darling_ as he sucks a mark into Crowley’s throat. Everywhere that Aziraphale’s mouth has touched burns. Crowley needs to get his dick out of these jeans like yesterday.

So he flips them over, a move that takes far more wriggling than he’d like and a bit of shoving that makes Aziraphale laugh, but then Crowley’s braced on his hands looking down. Aziraphale’s spread across the bed - Crowley’s bed! A real angel! - and his hair is mussed, pale curls tangled and strewn. Aziraphale’s flushed and glowing, his eyes full of affection, his lips red and swollen. Crowley catches the words before they drop out of his mouth: it’s far too much, here, now. This space around them it already too vulnerable.

Instead, he bends to deliberately kiss Aziraphale, moving his mouth with meaning, sucking at Aziraphale’s bottom lip. It’s like he has to say something, so Crowley moves to lick along Aziraphale’s jaw and murmurs: “Aziraphale, I’m so sorry.” Another kiss, this one likely to bruise, on the column of his neck. “I never want you to think you aren’t worth much ever again.” Crowley licks along the soft line of Aziraphale’s collarbone; he can hear Aziraphale gasp, although whether it’s the words or the action, Crowley doesn’t know or care. “You’re worth it, you’re worth whatever you want and you deserve _so much._ ” He trails down to lick the flat of his tongue up Aziraphale’s nipple, and _that_ noise is for him too. “Let me give it to you, angel. Lemme show you.”

He isn’t much for speeches, but Aziraphale seems struck by it, by the look on his face. Crowley glances up as he situates himself between Aziraphale’s legs, and freezes, because Aziraphale’s reaching out to him with a look on his face like Crowley’s given him the world. Crowley lets himself be tugged up, until he’s straddling Aziraphale, who pulls him down to press kisses all over his face. That shouldn’t at all be as hot as it is but something lurches in Crowley and ends up white-hot in his cock.

“Darling, I,” Aziraphale says into Crowley’s neck. He’s breathless. “Let me show _you,_ dearest.” And then it’s like a flood, really, pouring out of Aziraphale and his hands are the ark, the only thing Crowley can hold on to. “I know you feel like you can’t count on anyone, you don’t expect anyone to be there for you, you work so hard to be independent and it’s beautiful, really, I admire it.” Aziraphale’s hands slip down the back of Crowley’s jeans and he can’t help the way his hips grind down on Aziraphale’s thigh. “But I want you to know that I have your back. From now on, darling, from now on. I want you to _feel_ like I’m there, right behind you. On your side.”

Crowley’s eyes close because it’s too much. His heart is going to explode out of his chest — either that or his dick’s gonna explode through his pants and he isn’t sure which one would be messier. Or better. Aziraphale moves his hands to Crowley’s hair and pulls him down to press fluttering kisses on his closed eyelids.

“Let me prove it to you?” Aziraphale asks, and what the fuck can Crowley even say to that?

He opens his eyes. Aziraphale smiles at him.

The yearning _slams_ into Crowley and maybe it hits them both because suddenly Aziraphale’s hands are tugging at his fly, and Crowley actually _gets off the bed_ to tear his stupid jeans off along with his boxer briefs because fuck it, god, he needs to feel Aziraphale. Somewhere in the flurry of desperate kisses and hands and teeth he manages to remove those damn tartan boxers and there, that’s much better, no tartan allowed in this bed ever again. Aziraphale must be nude at all times. Crowley feels the sting as Aziraphale’s teeth graze his shoulder and shudders, full-body. He’s fumbling at his bedside drawer, then, nearly blindly, not wanting to tear his mouth away from Aziraphale’s. Lube. Condom. Crowley throws them both at Aziraphale as if the world is ending; Aziraphale laughs.

“Please,” Crowley says, and there’s need leaking from his voice. “Let me feel you?”

Aziraphale’s eyes, already full of desire, darken even further. He rolls them until Aziraphale’s weight is pressing Crowley down into the bed again and Crowley hisses with the pleasure, words already gone. “Like this?” Aziraphale asks, and his voice is deep like ocean trenches. “Can I take care of you, Crowley?”

“Hnnnng,” Crowley says, and wow, that’s embarrassing. His back arches involuntarily at the thought of it and the yearning is battering in his chest. “Yes, Aziraphale, I’ve got you, please.”

The noise Aziraphale makes then is a noise Crowley’s only heard in association with wine and dessert, and it sort of white-outs static in his head to hear it applied to him, his body, himself. When he opens his eyes again Aziraphale’s slicked up one finger and is pressing burning kisses into his neck as he murmurs, “Ready?”

“Ready,” Crowley snorts, gasping and trying desperately to salvage the last of his dignity, “I was born ready, angel, I’m good, c’mon.”

Aziraphale tuts at him as if they’re out for dinner and Crowley has said something rather naughty. The reality of Aziraphale’s wet finger pressing up against his perineum is blindingly more real. Crowley can’t help but keep his eyes open, wide, watching as Aziraphale gently parts his hole, pressing the tip of his finger in and sliding it back out. The sensation zings up Crowley’s spine and rings his head like a gong. “Fuck,” says Crowley.

Aziraphale chuckles and does it again, sliding more of his finger in, a slow drag until Crowley can feel his knuckles pressed up against intimate skin and holy shit, that’s Aziraphale _inside_ him, Aziraphale’s finger breaching him. This is Aziraphale, here in his bed. He needs more; Crowley feels starving.

“More,” he says, sounding hoarse. “C’mon, angel, more.”

“I,” Aziraphale says, pouring more lube on his hand and then relentlessly breaching Crowley with two slick fingers, “am going to take my time with you, my dearest.”

Crowley feels _delved._ It’s two fingers, and the dull pain of the stretch is like a spice; what’s important is the way he feels full, now, or full _er._ It still isn’t enough, not yet, but the knowledge that it’s Aziraphale doing it, moving his fingers inside Crowley’s body, gently turning and stretching — gentle yet relentless. This seems to be Aziraphale’s standard, though: approaching a thing with slow, sure movements and every ounce of his attention blazing on demand. It already makes Crowley feel like he’s going to evaporate.

Then Aziraphale bends his fingers just so, rubbing across Crowley’s prostate, and Crowley howls - embarrassing! - and nearly folds in half. Aziraphale’s other hand is on his hip, now, holding him in place, and the pleasure slices through his brain. It’s just dimmed down to a manageable volume when Aziraphale does it again, that fucking bastard, leaving the scorched thrill of it lingering in Crowley’s fingertips.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley says very clearly, holding on to it with the last braincell he has left. “If you don’t get inside me soon I’m going to explode and die. Tragic. What a mess. Ruin your clothes.” He’s babbling, now, but his chest is throbbing like a wound and he _wants_.

“Don’t be dramatic, darling,” Aziraphale murmurs, but Crowley can hear the wrinkle of plastic and the sound of slick on flesh and he groans uncontrollably. His muscles are already clenching around nothing, that empty hole, like they need to feel full as badly as Crowley does himself. Then Aziraphale’s cock is pressing against him, into him, sliding on his skin until Aziraphale takes it in hand and slowly, inexorably, guides himself inside Crowley.

There are fucking fireworks going off behind his eyes. Aziraphale’s cock is fatter than Crowley had realized and he feels strewn, skewered, pinned down like a butterfly: it’s fucking _perfect._

Above him Aziraphale breathes out one long soft moan as a sigh, sinking into Crowley as his body sinks down onto Crowley. There’s a moment of stillness, Crowley’s nerves rapid-fire and adjusting to the stretch, and Aziraphale turns his head to murmur raggedly into Crowley’s neck. “My apologies, dear boy. It’s quite dramatic after all, isn’t it?”

It’s such an Aziraphale thing to say.

From there Crowley feels like his ability for conscious thought drifts off. He becomes a creature of instinct, arms and skin tingling with touch, pleasure striking him from the inside out every time Aziraphale shifts to hit the right spot; his prostate is fucking glowing with it and Crowley knows he’s dribbling all over his stomach, _weeping cock,_ does anyone ever really say that, shit, _fuck._ Every move Aziraphale makes feels like ten orgasms and Crowley thinks he may be ruined for sex forever. He has a hand buried in Aziraphale’s curls, and another grabbing Aziraphale’s plush arse, trying to pull him even deeper, wanting to take Aziraphale into his body and swallow him forever.

He’s aware that his own hips are working with Aziraphale, trying to hit a rhythm that helps Aziraphale sink home inside him, but it also feels like his spine is rubber and his limbs aren’t really working the way he wants. It’s incredibly delicious, though, something similar to the way Crowley feels when he serves Aziraphale wine, but this is Crowley serving _himself_ to Aziraphale: giving what he has, letting Aziraphale pick and choose and partake. And _devour_. Is that a weird analogy, Crowley isn’t even sure. What’s weird at this point, when he’s stricken with pleasure, back arching into Aziraphale’s gorgeous soft belly, and the feeling of Aziraphale’s cock inside him - Aziraphale! In his bed! In _him!_ \- slowly banging away at his ability to form coherent thought.

The sensations are full and Crowley’s _wrecked,_ already. He feels like he’s hanging off of Aziraphale by his ankles, like some spindly bony dramatic monkey that’s clinging to something thick and also being fucked within an inch of its life. His brain is officially off-track, gone, far beyond the pale. It’s been replaced entirely by dragging, pulsing motion and the feeling of terrible pleasure rising like the moon.

Even better are the sounds: Aziraphale’s gasping into his ear between odd litanies of praise, swears, and what sounds like poetry. Crowley hears _fuck_ and _yes_ right alongside _darling_ and _love_ and _make a space in thee where I shall dwell forever_ and Crowley’s so okay with all of this he doesn’t realize he’s crying out on every stroke, higher and higher each time Aziraphale thrusts into him, until he’s keening as he comes, spilling untouched onto his stomach and Aziraphale’s soft belly, shaking and blind with it. It’s a torrent, like he’s stuck a finger into an electrical socket but in the best way, and Crowley thinks he might have let a tear or two go in the intensity. He certainly isn’t going to check. Not now, anyway; his body is limp from pleasure, orgasm ripped from him just the way he likes it, out of his own control.

Aziraphale’s stopped, hovering above him, and Crowley wonders at his stamina until he realizes Aziraphale was _watching_ him, had stopped _just_ to see Crowley in orgasm, rising and shattering and coming down. It strikes him, then, and Crowley opens his mouth to say _I love you_ but his throat is dry and Aziraphale bends to kiss him instead. Aziraphale’s eyes are damp, too, as if he just watched one of the seven wonders of the world come into being, which is an odd sensation to try to align with feeling sticky while there’s still a cock inside of him. Crowley smiles, aware it’s wan and trembling, and Aziraphale just smiles even more softly and whispers, “oh, love,” and moves again, and again, and only a few more beautifully stabbing oversensitive thrusts are needed before Aziraphale collapses shaking on top of him.

And _this,_ Crowley realizes, this might be even better than the orgasm - which is saying something, because his body feels shattered like a plate - but he wraps his hands around Aziraphale, legs around those shuddering hips, pulling him deeper and holding him there while Aziraphale moans the lowest note Crowley’s ever heard in his life and comes inside of him. Crowley’s got him, he’s holding Aziraphale in his arms and inside his body, and there’s a second wave of intense pleasure spilling into and through him as Aziraphale sobs a sigh into his neck.

Later - probably hours later - they clean up and tuck themselves into Crowley’s bed, curled about each other like kittens.

———

Crowley wakes up tangled in the sheets or something. Groggy, his entire body feeling blissfully empty, he tries to kick his legs only to realize they’re being held in place with someone’s broad thigh. Crowley makes his way to the surface of sleep and realizes he’s on his side, curled into Aziraphale like a leggy ball. Aziraphale’s chin is tucked on top of his head, and Aziraphale’s snoring into his curls. Probably drooling, too, what’s wrong with Crowley anyway, this is a terrible life choice. He has one arm tucked underneath him that’s half-asleep, his other arm draped over Aziraphale’s waist. Aziraphale has one hand on Crowley’s ass, because of course he does.

Crowley shifts until he’s on his back, arm freed and prickling as bloodflow returns, and Aziraphale huffs something and rolls until his face is in Crowley’s shoulder instead. He’ll allow it.

It’s morning. Aziraphale’s still here. They’re still in Crowley’s bed, touching, together.

Crowley grumbles, presses a grumpy kiss to Aziraphale’s curls - grumpy, yes; he’s not sappy in the mornings, no, fuck that - and lets himself fall back into sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **first:** for those who skipped: the sex quickly becomes emotional between these two. Crowley tells Aziraphale that he's worth so much more than he has been given; Aziraphale tells Crowley that he wants to have his back. Crowley's sex-soaked brain makes a lot of terrible metaphor jokes, but they connect in finally giving each other what the other needs. 
> 
> **second:** the discord is up! Join me [right here](https://discord.gg/4C5vEGQ) to yell about Old Vines, other fics, original stuff, and writing in general!
> 
> **third:** still have [other projects going on](https://seventhe.dreamwidth.org/435490.html) and would love your support there!
> 
> **fourth:** IS THE RESOLUTION OKAY? ARE WE SATISFIED? is everyone happy? what do you think happens next? ONLY 4 CHAPTERS LEFT AAAAAAAA plz talk to me


	17. The Sugars Developing In The Grape

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale allows things to develop.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I SWEAR THE NEXT UPDATE WON'T TAKE SO LONG. FUCK. LOOK????? I have so many things going on right now????? But here you go, my dears!
> 
> Do you realize this is Ch 17 out of 20??? Just think: Chapter 18 is another Tasting Flight, Chapter 19 is Crowley, and Chapter 20 is our epilogue. This long ride is almost over!! (I might CRY!) Come yell about it in my Discord [here!](https://discord.gg/4C5vEGQ)
> 
> You'll also notice that this work is now also part of a series AND a collection devoted just to Old Vines. This is good news for you! You'll find a new work up in the series, an Ask Gabriel Anything event I ran on my tumblr that ended up being a hilariously valid part of canon -- check it out! It isn't critical to OV itself, but it's funny as fuck. 
> 
> Check the end notes for other fun things going on. Until then, enjoy chapter 17 .....!

Aziraphale wakes up slowly. Softly. He’s warm, he’s comfortable, and the air smells like growing things, and freshness, and safety. He doesn’t even have to open his eyes before he recognizes the scent of Crowley’s shampoo, and he’s smiling as he does, pressing a kiss to whatever warm skin he’s buried in. It turns out to be Crowley’s shoulder; Crowley’s spread out on his back, under the covers, and Aziraphale’s thrown an arm and a leg over him in sleep as if he’s afraid Crowley’s going to run off.

No, not any more. Not any more.

Something’s _settled_ inside of Aziraphale. He doesn’t have words for it, yet; it’s too new, too young. It’s still a thin green sapling, a tiny shoot; he needs to cup his hands around it, protect it, until he can hear what words it’s whispering. It needs to steep, like a cup of tea, before he can drink of it and read the shapes it leaves behind.

But for now, it’s just a breath of joy, of fresh air, and Aziraphale presses more happier kisses into Crowley’s shoulder until the other man groans, twitches, and then flops those spindly limbs over until he’s facing Aziraphale.

“Why are you awake.” Crowley’s voice is all sleep-soaked gravel, but the way his mismatched eyes flutter open is full of nothing but content. “Angel, don’t tell me you’re a morning person, I’m dumping you.”

Aziraphale laughs. It’s a small sound between them but it’s free, unfettered. “I’m nothing of a morning person, my darling. I just woke up feeling…” He isn’t sure what word to use, even now. (There are three words he could use - three words he wants to use, three words that almost dropped from his lips last night repeatedly, where he could press them into Crowley’s skin - but Aziraphale decides to hold those back. Not because he’s afraid to say them, but because he wants to give them like a gift, saved for the perfect moment.)

But Crowley’s face is softening, and he reaches out to trace his knuckles over Aziraphale’s cheek. “Yeah,” he says. “I know.”

Aziraphale shivers at the touch in the very best way, and Crowley lifts himself up on an elbow, and then they’re kissing. Soft, gentle, sweet; practicalities and morning breath be damned. Aziraphale wants to wake up like this every day. And that should be terrifying - and probably will, later - but he’s learnt, he’s learning, and he can _have this_ for now.

Crowley licks into his mouth and Aziraphale pulls that slender body on top of his, lets all of those sharp angles sink into and around him. And oh, he didn’t mean to, but the sudden skin-on-skin is so much that they’re _both_ trembling with it now: gentle but _urgent,_ that need to be together, to feel each other.

“What time do you need to be at work?” He murmurs, and Crowley laughs into his collarbone, where he’s been licking tender stripes into Aziraphale’s skin.

“I own the place,” Crowley says, and his grin is reckless and beautiful. “You?”

“I’ve quit,” Aziraphale tells him, and while it isn’t actually entirely true at all, he watches as the mischief blooms across Crowley’s face like a blush, and the way his eyes gleam: one in gold and one in brown, both of them full of something Aziraphale wants to drown in.

“Well then,” says Crowley.

In the end Aziraphale had meant to maybe cuddle some more, and then perhaps talk Crowley into making breakfast — or, even, slipping into _Ecdyses_ hand-in-hand and letting the staff stare. He hadn’t necessarily expected Crowley’s mouth on him, around him, or Crowley’s fingers pressing in and up. He hadn’t expected laughing, breathlessly, as Crowley had bottomed out inside him with a long slow hiss of an exhale, unable to move for a few thick moments as Aziraphale kissed the lines of his neck. He hadn’t expected the desperation, the way Crowley gasped, the way every movement built up like a tide; he hadn’t expected the relentless rocking, the way Crowley never left him completely, the way that soft motion became overwhelming until he wept his own release into Crowley’s neck, hidden in the downfall curls of Crowley’s hair, Crowley’s sob of a climax following after.

———

Of course, Warlock’s got his notes all over the dining room table and gives him an epically _shit-eating_ grin when he returns.

“Don’t say anything,” Aziraphale tells him, chin up and trying to hide his smile. They’d had a leisurely shower afterward, and while Aziraphale’s clothes were horribly wrinkled they weren’t necessarily - soiled - from anything, but he still feels as if it’s written on his bones now. And why not? Crowley’s his, now, for as long as it works; what is there to hide?

Warlock hums at him and Aziraphale turns to note the grin hasn’t moved an inch. “I can’t decide whether I’m surprised you were out so late,” Warlock drawls at him, “or that you’re home so… early.”

To that, Aziraphale simply raises an eyebrow and says, pronunciation as proper as he can make it, “It isn’t _that_ early, dear boy.”

It takes a few seconds — and then Warlock’s laughing, yelling, “Gross, Az!” as he crumples a piece of paper and chucks it in Aziraphale’s direction. Aziraphale simply smiles triumphantly and then slips into the bedroom in order to change.

———

A brisk sink-splash makeover and some eggs on toast later, Aziraphale’s sat down with his tablet across the table from Warlock. His assistant’s smile is cheeky enough that Aziraphale’s still blushing, a bit, but he can’t bring himself to be actually and actively embarrassed. Warlock’s on what looks like his third cup of coffee, while Aziraphale’s just starting his very first mug of tea.

“Are you ready to get to work?” Warlock asks him.

Aziraphale does himself the honor of thinking about it. He’s going to have to face Gabriel, and probably Michael, and say things he’s never even thought of saying before. He’s going to have to think quick, and to ask for time when he needs to, and to stand by his decisions. It isn’t going to be easy; it isn’t a thing he has any experience in. He certainly isn’t looking forward to it.

But he and Warlock have been through some things, and Warlock can’t continue until he understands how FTA is going to take this. And, in the end, Warlock can’t fight all of his battles.

“I think so,” he says, and it’s as honest as he can get.

Warlock gets his laptop set up and then pauses, frowning, before gesturing Aziraphale to take the seat next to him. “I don’t want them to be able to see your face right away,” he tells Aziraphale, “but I think it’s important that _you_ see how they manage this when you’re not around.” He breathes in through his nostrils, holds it a second, and then sighs. “Gabriel’s not the nicest person, Az. I don’t think he _means_ to be cruel, but intention isn’t magic and all, right? This might hurt.”

Aziraphale nods. It’s not like he’s not aware of how badly the things Gabriel says can cut. He knows a lot of it’s his fault, too; had he been able to _once_ step back and say, _no, don’t speak to me like that,_ what might have been different? But that doesn’t matter right now: it’s time to focus on this. “I’m well aware. And capable of detaching my more personal response to him, for the moment.”

“It gives us a bargaining advantage,” Warlock continues, “if Gabriel thinks he’s speaking just to me. I’m not going to lie to him if he asks, but. Just trust me, Az.”

Aziraphale doesn’t have to say it. At this point it’s been made obvious. The amount of trust he’s handed over to Warlock, his entire future in the boy’s hands: that says it all. Instead he takes his seat and Warlock angles the laptop so that Aziraphale will _just_ be able to see his screen. Aziraphale’s belly is bubbling with something like anticipation: excitement and nerves all in one, trepidation alongside the knowledge that this is it, that he’s so close to being finally, finally free. His hands are clenched in his lap and Aziraphale relaxes them carefully, spreading his fingers, rubbing his palms once down the fabric of his trousers.

Warlock makes the call, and Aziraphale nearly panicks hearing the tinny electronic sound as it rings out. He takes a deep breath, and thinks about the book on his tablet, the story he’s realized he’s bursting to tell. He remembers Crowley’s voice, murmuring into his skin, telling him he’s worth this. _Well._ Aziraphale straightens his back. If he’s worth Crowley’s regard - beautiful, chaotic, clever Crowley - he’s certainly worth more than a few insults from Gabriel.

“Warlock!” Gabriel greets him like an old friend and since Aziraphale knows he can’t be seen, he allows himself to roll his eyes into his teacup. “Good morning! Good to see you!”

“Hello,” says Warlock. His voice is friendly, but an empty kind: professional, businesslike, a sort of detached pleasantry Aziraphale himself has never quite been able to reach. “Good to see you. I was hoping we could touch base about the upcoming contract negotiation, make sure we’re on the same page.”

“Yes, yes, of course!” Gabriel grins into the camera, then ducks off-screen to rummage through something on his desk. “I’m sure I have — hmm, that isn’t — oh! It doesn’t look like this call was on my schedule? Did we have an appointment that didn’t get into my calendar?”

It’s so condescending. Aziraphale can feel it, now, the way Gabriel’s tone is just _gently_ pushing for it to be Warlock’s fault. Warlock, on the other hand, says cheerfully, “No, this wasn’t scheduled. Just hoped you’d be free.” It’s tossed out there as if Warlock hadn’t spend a half hour going through Gabriel’s calendar to find an appropriate time to call.

“Well, you got lucky!” It’s another one of Gabriel’s grins. “So, upcoming contract negotiation?” He frowns. “I don’t think we have one of those on the calendar, do we?”

“No, we don’t.” Warlock’s voice is so casual, Aziraphale thinks he’s probably the only one who can see how smug Warlock feels about it.

Gabriel frowns. “I don’t understand,” he says, pushing what sounds like fake positivity into his voice. “If there’s nothing on the schedule, then …what negotiation?”

Warlock picks up and restacks the pile of papers in front of him. “Aziraphale and I will be renegotiating our contract with FTA,” he says. Just says it, like it’s nothing. If Aziraphale could bottle up half that confidence… well. “I want to go over the relevant details with you before I reach out to legal.”

Gabriel looks …stunned, for a moment, before that plastic smile reappears on his face. “I didn’t think one could renegotiate a contract while in the middle of it, Mr. Dowling,” he says, and Aziraphale flinches. It’s obvious that Gabriel means to fight.

“Normally you don’t, Mr. Archer,” Warlock replies coolly. “But I’ve been reviewing the clauses in Part Three, and I’ve determined that Aziraphale isn’t exactly getting what he needs with regards to FTA support and flexibility.”

Gabriel’s eyes narrow; Aziraphale can see the reaction, even with the screen so sharply angled. “Aziraphale doesn’t need flexibility, Warlock. He needs to be told what to write and how to write it. Even you have to know that!” It’s followed by a laugh that twists into Aziraphale’s gut, although Warlock’s face just goes more bland. “We’ve done him a favor, guiding his blog like that, and you know it.”

God, Warlock doesn’t flinch at all. Aziraphale sips his tea and watches. This is like good live telly, really.

“You might think so,” says Warlock. “But I’ve looked at the statistics, done a study on articles with more or less interference and editing on your side, and the A.Z. Fell brand does better when FTA lets his true written voice shine through.”

Gabriel looks like he’s swallowed something hot for a moment. “The A.Z. Fell brand? What on earth does _that_ mean?”

Aziraphale catches the way Warlock’s lips twitch for a small sharp moment before he resets his face. “Mr. Archer, you can’t possibly think that I’m not tracking the worth of my client’s online brand as a measure of how beneficial this contract situation is to both of us?” It’s said with the most subtle arch of an eyebrow Aziraphale has ever seen. He’s pretty sure even Crowley wouldn’t be able to match that.

Gabriel stumbles a bit over his tongue. “Mr. Dowling,” he says smoothly. “I’m not quite sure what you’re insinuating? Surely Aziraphale’s brand is now our brand as well? FTA tracks the interactions and CTR and conversions as well as you do, I’m sure.” The last seems to be said between teeth.

Warlock’s now smiling, openly. “If you can reference our contract document,” he starts, and the lazy way he opens the folder tells Aziraphale everything he needs to know. “You’ll see in Part Three that we have explicitly differentiated the worth of the A.Z. Fell brand against the internal growth of FTA as compared to its normally expected growth. Now, in this case, we’re both doing explicitly well. But you have to admit, that just gives my point more ammunition, doesn’t it?”

Aziraphale smiles at that. It’s obvious Warlock’s winning this one. He stands up, gesturing at his teacup, and heads to the kitchen to put the kettle on.

———

“And then Warlock asked him if he had a rubber duck!” Aziraphale finishes, and then cackles, relieved by the way Crowley hoots in response, this big broad honking noise like a goose sent to space. They’re literally lying on their backs on the carpet in Aziraphale’s giant rental house, because they can. How is he supposed to stay here when FTA terminates their contract? He doesn’t want to think about it, and yet he wants to take advantage of it until there’s no time left. This is a compromise. Also, they’re drunk.

“I hope you recorded his stupid face reacting to that.” Crowley rolls to his side to reach for his wineglass. “I need to make that the background on my mobile.”

“I sort of tuned out after that,” Aziraphale admits. “Gabriel was making an awful kind of racket, and I decided I just didn’t need to listen to most of it.” He’d found a delightful interior design game on his tablet and had amused himself for twenty minutes decorating rooms while Gabriel had ranted about something or another.

“So.” Crowley rolls to his other side now, and Aziraphale tips himself so that they’re face to face. “Where does it stand now?”

“Well, Gabriel’s insisting that Warlock’s wrong, of course, but Warlock’s got the high ground there, really.” He sighs. “I shouldn’t be surprised that Gabriel never really read the contract. I mean, I read it, but I didn’t understand things. Obviously! I’m not an expert in that kind of language! That’s why I had Warlock!”

“It’s fine, angel.” Crowley leans in, smiling, knocking his nose against Aziraphale’s cheek. “Gabriel has an entire legal team, he has no excuse.”

“He really doesn’t,” Aziraphale says primly, and takes a moment to revel in how he can just _say_ that, now, without his entire stomach feeling like eggs scrambling in a hot pan. He feels guilty, sure, but in that vague way he occasionally feels guilty when he’s being just a bit of a bastard to someone; there’s none of that internal fear or shame that Gabriel will somehow find out and punish him. Bit by bit - baby steps - he’s learning how this feels.

“So while Gabriel fumbles around in his own mess,” Crowley continues, “what’s next on your side?”

“Warlock has officially filed a contract renegotiation with the FTA legal team. He’s made it clear that Gabriel isn’t invited to the negotiations as well, so.” Aziraphale sighs. “At least I won’t have to deal with that. He’s written up a draft proposal and I guess he and Michael and someone from legal will walk through it initially. I don’t have to be there.” It’s said with a good amount of relief.

“This may not be the time.” Crowley’s voice is soft, full of understanding. “But what’s your plan? Like… here?”

Aziraphale smiles at it: not just the gesture, but the courtesy with which Crowley’s asking. How sweet. “Originally we had the house until the end of September,” he says, “Maybe the first week in October. I don’t remember. Now?” Aziraphale sighs. He doesn’t want to be thinking about it, but he has to. “Now it depends on the negotiations. We could be here another month. We could have to leave next week.” It tugs at his chest, here, staring at Crowley. How can he leave this, now?

Crowley just nods. “We’ll be starting the harvest next week,” he says gently. “I’d — I think you’d enjoy it, helping out. It’s loads of work, but loads of fun, too. Something cool for you to write about.”

“I would love that,” Aziraphale says, desperate and desperately in love. “Honestly, we’ll probably still be in negotiations when you start. I’d like to see it.”

Desperately desperate. The kiss he gives Crowley doesn’t quite convey all of that, but it’s close.

———

The words inside of him have changed.

_I continue to learn things in hindsight. Always backwards-looking, me; I spend my time filtering fingers through my memories, making comparisons to touchpoints previously established. This flavor is here, and here; my mouth recognizes them because it has the long trail of experience built into it. History is not a bad thing. Experience colors our opinions, yes: that’s what it’s for._

_Had I the insight at the beginning of the summer that I have now, I may not have ended up here. And yet — isn’t that the point, lessons learnt? Maybe I would have come to this place in a better form, with more to offer; maybe the hurt could have been avoided. So much hurt. And yet, growth is uncomfortable. Take it from myself, who should have this lesson tattooed up my spine: if one only wants to stay comfortable, there will be no change. No growth. Vines that aren’t cut back won’t expand._

_I do not know what this place has unlocked in me yet; I am still learning, tumbling through it like a river, whatever bruises be on my body already. Was it this — the land here, its mix of soils and fog, of mountains and plain, of sea and clay? Was it the wines of this place, robust and unapologetic, exploding across my palate like an artist’s palette, bright and broad? Was it him: Crowley, my unbearably sharp and lovely Crowley, expunging this from my soul like lancing a wound, filling this gaping hole I’ve been so unaware of, healing all of the broken parts of myself?_

_Or was it simply time? Have I been growing this - this vine - of discontent inside me for so long? Has it been hibernate, dormant, sleeping inside of me, waiting for the right conditions to germinate and sprout? Has it been me, all along, this disparate and desperate piece of me finally sending out shoots and tendrils, crawling its way into the sun?_

_We may never know, those of us who walk through this world with their emotions tucked safely away into bookshelves. We do not make it easy to open that story and look inside; there are no quick-reference definitions for those of us who have always been so afraid to feel. And yet - and yet. Does it matter?_

_This summer has been a constellation of experiences, each as sparkling-bright as the next. Does it matter which star was named first, when they all come together to form the same shape?_

———

His mobile rings from inside his pocket, and Aziraphale curses at it. He’s scrolling through news on his tablet, waiting for Crowley to finish up in the back offices so that they can go for dinner. He should be working on the book, but he’s oddly cautious about it, with the rest of his life in contract limbo. He won’t apologize for spending this time with Crowley, with everything else so uncertain. Soon he’ll be hours away from this place. The thought of his apartment back in LA is already cold and lonely, and he hasn’t even returned yet.

Aziraphale glances at the mobile as he pulls it out, and nearly throws it, because it’s Michael. Normally he’d let it go to voicemail, but he’s a certain kind of restless today, so he picks up the call. “Hello?”

There’s a brief pause, as if Michael had been preparing herself to leave a message. “Aziraphale,” she says, sounding rushed. “Don’t hang up.”

Aziraphale snorts. “I still have manners, Michael,” he says, and is rewarded when she gives a faint fluttering laugh over the phone. It sounds like she’s outdoors somewhere. Interesting. She’s always so entirely put-together.

“This isn’t an official phone call,” she says. “If asked, I accidentally dialed you instead of someone else, and we chatted about your day before hanging up.”

Aziraphale chuckles. “I’m officially intrigued,” he says, and Michael hurries to interrupt him.

“I’m serious,” she says. “Aziraphale, Gabriel’s going to fire you.”

His stomach drops, and now Aziraphale understands where that phrase comes from: that sinking sensation, gravity gripping in like claws and dragging his center down into the floor. He’s been expecting something like it, but it’s surprising how much it still hurts. And that isn’t really wrong, is it? He’s allowed to have these emotions. Being fired hurts even when you know it’s coming. “I,” he starts, and then remembers a conversation with Warlock; “I don’t think—”

“No,” says Michael, “he can’t.”

Aziraphale, very wisely, stops talking.

There’s a long inhale, and the sound of an exhale hissed between teeth, before Michael starts again. “He’s having a fit,” she says, so very bluntly. “He had some life-changing _date,_ I guess.” Her voice somehow manages to be both scathing and entirely neutral; Aziraphale wishes he knew how to do that. “Came back to the office in one of his hyper-positive moods, had a call with Warlock, and broke a chair.”

Aziraphale — manages, right at the end, not to laugh. “Oh dear,” he says instead.

“So, he’s just knee-jerk reacting.” Michael exhales again, a long exhausted sound, and Aziraphale’s suddenly so sympathetic. She and Gabriel work together on nearly _everything._ What’s that like? Surely Gabriel wouldn’t treat a coworker, a colleague, the same way he treats Aziraphale, but — how much of Michael’s work is damage control?

“Anyway,” she continues. “He’s going to try to fire you. He’ll probably call you first. _Do not pick up._ Make him phone Warlock instead.”

Aziraphale nods in agreement, because Warlock will be able to handle that conversation much better than he will — and then bristles, a bit, because shouldn’t he be able to manage that kind of thing himself? But Michael’s right, really; there’s still far too much bad blood between himself and Gabriel. He probably wouldn’t be able to manage it as well. Not yet; not now. “That’s not hard to do,” he tells her, and giggles a bit afterward without meaning to.

There’s wry amusement in her voice when she replies. “I’m sure it won’t be. Look, Aziraphale. We may not be able to keep you on.” It’s blunt, but with all of the adrenaline running through his system, he appreciates it at this point. “I’m not sure how well we’ll be able to work with what you want, and I can’t speak for the legal department at all. But I don’t want something - ill-advised - to happen with Gabriel and make you run. Give us a chance to see what the options are before you go freelance, alright?”

And well, that’s actually quite good to hear. “We will,” Aziraphale promises her, and the phone call ends a few words later.

“Alright, angel?” Heavens, Crowley’s drawl is so familiar, so beloved; Aziraphale glances up into those dark lenses and feels like he’s just beaming out adoration.

“Everything’s great now,” he says, honestly, and watches as Crowley fondly rolls his eyes. “Shall we head out?”

———

Dinner’s great, but the topping on the ice cream sundae is the fact that he gets to ignore three calls and five texts from Gabriel. He’s chuckling to himself at the last one, and when he explains to Crowley what Michael had said earlier, Crowley offers to take the next call. Aziraphale refuses, but he’s laughing down into his gut as Crowley acts out the phone call, doing voices for himself and Gabriel that get increasingly ridiculous.

Rather than staying out for dessert and drinks, Crowley takes them both back to his. There’s this unnamed feeling hovering over them like a blanket, and Aziraphale knows it’s their unknown future, just around the corner. Instead they curl up on his couch and Aziraphale delightfully offers color commentary on episodes of _Chopped_ while Crowley pours wine and grabs snacks: mint cookies, fresh raspberries, these buttery crackers. He lays it out in front of Aziraphale like it’s a glamorous spread. Aziraphale, in tartan socks with his sleeves rolled up and waistcoat unbuttoned, feels absolutely spoiled.

They’re both laughing at a contestant who has, apparently, never cooked an eggplant, when Crowley turns to him and says, apropos to absolutely nothing, “I think I’ve made a decision.”

“Oh?” Aziraphale’s attention moves instantly from the telly to Crowley’s face. The sunglasses are discarded; Crowley’s sparkling eyes reflect light and dark back at him. “Do tell, darling.”

Crowley shrugs, slouches, flicks his eyes down to Aziraphale’s mouth and then to the carpet for a moment before coming back. “I think I’m going to do it,” he says very quietly. “Take the chance, that is. Open up the winery.”

“Oh. Oh!” Aziraphale isn’t quite sure what he thought Crowley was going to say, but this — this is incredible. He fumbles for the remote, dropping the volume substantially. “Well, then! Good! Why?”

Crowley ducks his head so that his curls fall before his face. He’s been wearing his long hair down more often; Aziraphale hopes it’s at least partially for him, because he loves tangling his fingers through it, running his hands along it. Crowley’s hair alternates between well-schooled ringlets and wind-tousled waves with no seeming pattern to them, and Aziraphale loves it every time. Oh, he loves this man. It’s becoming ridiculous.

“I’ve been here eleven years,” Crowley says slowly. “And I’ve — I’ve grown with it. With the place. Went from a city boy who didn’t know phosphates from _shoe rubber_ to someone who grows their own vegetables. I’ve made wine. I’ve made better wine. I am where I am now because of me.”

“And you should be proud of that,” Aziraphale tells him. _I am. I’m so very proud of you. Your brilliance and your depth and the way you care._

Crowley snorts, and peeks out from behind that burnished-red curtain of hair. “Well, I started thinking about this as - as something else I can do, for me? By myself? It sounds dumb, right, but — if I tell myself that this is something I did, grow this place big enough to take on partners, to do what’s best for the _site,_ then it doesn’t…” He shakes his head. “It’s really pretty fucking stupid, but it doesn’t feel like it’s …charity? That way? Or accepting help I don’t need? Taking the easy way out?” Crowley shrugs. “Semantics, I’m sure.”

Aziraphale reaches out, touches the back of Crowley’s hand. “Semantics are important, though,” he tells Crowley. “Seriously. Look at myself and Warlock, and — and Gabriel. The situation’s still the same, really, but that reframing - the words you use to look at it - it can be incredibly important. There’s a reason that different points of view can lead to different takes on the same situation.”

Crowley hoots laughter. “You’re the writer,” he says, and Aziraphale leans in to taste the joy in that mouth. Their lips meet and he wonders, again, why they aren’t just kissing all of the time? His hand’s already in Crowley’s hair and he can feel both of their heartbeats picking up, like they’re held tight against each other.

“Sorry,” he says breathlessly, and Crowley swoops in to mouth at his bottom lip, moving to the line of his jaw.

“Never be sorry for that.” Crowley breathes damply into the skin of his neck for a second, then licks Aziraphale as he pulls away, giggling.

Aziraphale swats at him and then grabs his hand once successful. “I’m not sorry for that, but I’m sorry for interrupting. I do want to hear your thoughts.”

Crowley’s smile goes crooked in obvious fondness. “Well, once I started thinking about it that way - what I could do _for_ me and _for_ the place, rather than what can I do on my own, it was really just obvious. It makes sense. Open up our pool of capital, pay off some of the higher rates, get some on-hand cash to sink into the place. And it’s — it’s time?” His voice moves into that wonderful wandering realm where he’s considering all of his options, in that beautiful genius way Crowley has. “You can’t continue to grow the same thing over and over, in the same way, on the same land. You have to rotate your vegetables, and cut back your vines. It’s time to, eh. Time to cut myself back and see what grows next?”

It’s such a fanciful image that Aziraphale laughs, immensely pleased. “I don’t see it as cutting yourself back,” he says, “and I wouldn’t stand for less of you, anyway. But I think that’s just … lovely.”

“You would,” Crowley teases. “Got any more pages of that book to show me, then?”

He does, actually. Another chapter or two, the words flying off of his fingers into the pages of his book, no longer limited by anything save his own ability and imagination. Aziraphale isn’t quite ready to hand them over, though. He’s going to keep those tucked close to his chest, to make a meaningful gesture sometime down the line. He feels like he’ll need to do so, at some point when they’re back in their separate lives, in their separate cities, with him desperately looking for work and Crowley working eighty-hour harvest weeks.

“Not at the moment,” he says, and it isn’t a lie — it’s a promise.

———

In Gabriel’s defense, he doesn’t - quite - actually fire him.

“These demands are ridiculous,” he yells at Warlock, shaking a fistful of papers at his video camera. “You both signed on to increase traffic to the blog’s site by a factor of at least 1.7, and to do this by putting out at least seventy-five percent content directly related to wineries, and this isn’t — _none_ of the suggestions you’re making are going to meet these numbers!”

“Gabriel,” says Warlock, so very patiently. “That’s why we’re renegotiating.”

“But this version isn’t — it’s absolutely ridiculous.” Gabriel throws it onto his desk. Another stack of papers upsets itself, dumping pages onto the floor. Aziraphale bites his lip so that he doesn’t smile. “Plus, this says _nothing_ about the book deal. We have put a ton of money into this visit, and there’s nothing here about the book deal! _His new book, I mean,_ ” Gabriel continues, and the way he says _his_ has Aziraphale sucking at his own teeth.

“But you see,” says Warlock, as if this is a linchpin in his argument. “We don’t have to surrender any of the book. You accepted the previous chapters offered. In fact, you praised them, if you would like to check the communications appendix, article fifteen. Since FTA accepted those portions of the original story as sufficient to meet the demands, we are under absolutely no obligation to reserve the second book for FTA’s trademarks at all.”

“But then why doesn’t he owe us the original book?” Gabriel looks like he’s about to tear his hair out, and Aziraphale considers feeling bad for him for about a second before he decides he doesn’t have to. He doesn’t wish Gabriel ill - he isn’t that kind of person - but he can’t forget the tightness of the way Gabriel had made him feel, had made him act — to Warlock, and to Crowley. To his two favorite people.

“Did you review Part Three with your legal team like I asked you?” Warlock sounds like a very bored nanny, checking on her charge’s homework, and Aziraphale has to glance away again to avoid laughing. He’s present for this call, although he’s barely participating, and he’s just trying to stay invisible as to not attract any more ire than necessary.

“I did, but that doesn’t make any sense.” Gabriel taps a pen against his desk, a quick sharp _one-two-three_ that’s probably meant to make some kind of point. “We accepted the first book so we don’t get the second, but we don’t get the first book for …reasons?”

“Exactly,” says Warlock, and leans back with a satisfied smile.

———

_There will always be fear in me. I am too old - near five decades I’ve spent as this person - and I know which parts of me have been carved from rock and which parts are malleable like metal. I will always be afraid: afraid of the ways other people see me, the ways they might judge me, the things they might say. Others have the power to hurt me, and it will always be that way — and human bodies learn responses as a way to avoid pain. I will always fear some things. It is who I am, and I am so very tired of apologizing for who I am._

_And yes, I’m afraid now. Knowing that my time here is at an end, of course I’m afraid. I’m afraid to return home with no job and no prospects, possibly blacklisted by one of the largest corporations in my field — I’m afraid of losing my livelihood, or of having to make other, newer compromises to keep doing the things I love doing. I’m afraid to have an uncertain future, one that depends more than ever on my output and my skill. I’m afraid to leave this lovely land of sunsets and flavors and go back to a grey and tasteless city, although I have always known that would happen, so it’s less a fear and more a regret._

_I’m afraid to leave, of course. Afraid to discover that these changes within me, these hours and days I’ve spent growing in this soil and under this sun, all of this effort will end up being parched back in LA — an underwatered, underfertilized vine that slowly dies for lack of development. I’m afraid the changes are all surface-only, and that I might blossom large this year only to find myself returning to old habits over winter. I’m afraid of losing things, yes, of course I am. To fear is to be human._

_And of course I fear losing Crowley. The distance may prove greater than the things that tie us together, or perhaps this is a sunsoaked vine that only grows under certain careful conditions and withers when planted in the real world. But — of all the things I fear, this isn’t the strongest, and doesn’t that say something? I feel like whatever happens between us - because I am also far too old to pretend these things always end happily-ever-after - it will be because we have tried our best, rather than in spite of it. We will only part if we need to, if it’s best for us. I don’t fear losing him over a distance._

_Because what does five (six? I should probably look it up) hours in a horrible auto compare to the unlikely odds we’ve beaten here? The chances of even meeting - the chances of getting along, of both being available and interested and open to it? The chances we’d make it through the normal hiccups of a relationship into something we’re both committed to continuing?_

_I’ll take hours in a plane, or a car, or even a taxi, on those odds._

———

“There’s a chance we’ll have to be out of the house in a week,” says Aziraphale, while Crowley’s still kicking off his loafers. His voice is a little tight, a bit pitchy; he isn’t really sure this is how he wants to come across, but he can’t exactly help it. “That’s why I thought…” He gestures at the giant foyer, the darkened dining room. The lights in the kitchen are still on, forming a dimly-lit path that marks the way to the wine collection. “We might as well enjoy it for now.”

“Hng.” Crowley makes one of his usual noises as he rolls up the cuffs of his jeans, baring the delicate curves of his ankles. Aziraphale glances away, and is surprised when tender lips find his ear.

“It’s not about the place, angel.” Crowley chuckles into his hair. “It’s a fine place, sure, but it really ain’t about the house.”

Aziraphale sinks into his embrace. He doesn’t know what to say. “No, it isn’t,” he admits eventually. “I just …I don’t want to _go,_ Crowley.”

“Hush,” says Crowley. One arm is braced around Aziraphale’s waist, hand in the small of his back; his other hand’s sweeping big gestures up and down Aziraphale’s spine. “It’s alright. C’mon, let’s go get a snack and a drink.”

They end up on the couch in Aziraphale’s suite — like so many times before. So many precious times they’ve spent here, even in the beginning when they were still getting to know each other; so many times Aziraphale’s memories will flash back to this setting. Except this time they’re tucked against each other on the couch, Crowley’s arm around Aziraphale’s shoulders. They keep clinking their glasses against each other, as if they know this is the beginning of some sort of elongated goodbye. The melancholy is settling in, and Aziraphale is starting to wonder what it is he needs to do, or say, or—

“Hey,” Crowley says suddenly, jerking Aziraphale out of his thoughts. “You — we promised. We’re both gonna try, you know that. You agreed, same as me.”

“Yes?” Aziraphale’s head jerks up, strangely surprised.

“ _Yes,”_ Crowley insists. “So don’t sit there as if you’re already seeing the back of me. None of this is goodbye forever. Not until we want it to be.”

Something chokes inside of Aziraphale’s chest, and he _won’t_ cry at this, but it almost feels like he is: like something inside of him has torn open, bleeding slowly into some abyss. “I know,” he tells Crowley. “I know. And we might not be out that soon. And I _know_ it doesn’t matter anyway. I’ve just… I’ve gotten used to having you a few minutes away.” He looks up at Crowley, well aware his eyes may be starting to water. “Don’t tell me you haven’t.”

“Oh, hell.” Crowley groans, and tugs Aziraphale in, into his shoulder. “Look, angel, I’m this close to begging you to move in with me, right? Stay here. Write your book. We’ll buy goats. I’ll plant your fucking Sarsaparilla grape or whatever.”

“Sangiovese,” Aziraphale says, around a mouthful of giggles that aren’t quite ending in tears. “Oh, Crowley, that sounds so _lovely.”_

“I know it’s stupid,” Crowley says, and suddenly those wet-hot lips are on Aziraphale’s neck, kissing the line of his tendon. “I don’t mean it, really. I know you have to go back, to get your stuff if nothing else. To get a job. But — I just.”

“I know,” Aziraphale murmurs in reply. “I might be there for a while, darling, I have no idea how this will turn out. I don’t know what’s in line for me, really. I know nothing.” He tugs Crowley’s jaw around to taste those lips. He doesn’t think he’ll ever forget the taste of their very first kiss, the sharp bright green of that shoot echoed to the backs of his _teeth,_ the way it struck his skull like the toll of a bell — but now Crowley tastes familiar. There’s a taste to all the _Ecdyses_ wines, and Aziraphale doesn’t have words for it that aren’t fondness, appreciation, _love._

“Doesn’t matter,” Crowley tells him, pulling back before he dives into the open collar, mouthing at the top of Aziraphale’s collarbone. His nerves are alight, now, bright with Crowley’s mouth. “You know what - I mean - I know it’s - ah, fuck, angel.”

They’re both so close to crying and Aziraphale is determined to turn this around. “Don’t worry, darling. Stop, stop. I don’t care. There’s nothing that’s going to stand between us, not unless we do so ourselves. Please, _heaven,_ Crowley, I didn’t want—” But he’s sniffling as well. Aziraphale decides to apply his teeth to Crowley’s jaw instead. Crowley’s too far away and Aziraphale needs to feel him, closer, so much closer.

“Be there for harvest,” Crowley whispers against his lips. Hands are tangled into clothes and hair, and Aziraphale lets himself be pulled, to straddle Crowley’s skinny lap and long legs. “I don’t care if you and Warlock both have to stay in the house, that’s fine, I’ll sleep on the _floor,_ but I want—”

Aziraphale grinds down onto Crowley and can’t help the way he’s biting at the thin fabric of Crowley’s shirt. He wonders whether he could tear it with his teeth; whether Crowley might want him to. There’s something needy and ravenous inside himself, and it’s manifesting in the way he wants to _mark_ Crowley. Oh, _fuck,_ he’s teething at the collar of it, tugging at it, and Crowley makes a high thin noise before he pulls himself back to whisper in Aziraphale’s ear.

“Be there for harvest,” Crowley tells him. “I want your hands on my vines; I want your hands on my grapes, pulling them into the buckets and baskets.” There are fingers working at his shirt, and then Crowley’s fingertips are pressing into his chest, those palms working on his skin like electrodes. “I want every sssingle wine from this year to taste like your fingers,” Crowley whispers into his ear, and Aziraphale sobs, this time with want and desire. “I want to know every single bottle bears some small piece of you. I want this entire year’s vintage to be devoted to you, angel. Promise me,” and Aziraphale’s lost his shirt at this point, and his hands are somewhere underneath Crowley’s stupidly tight jeans. “I want your hands all over this harvest,” Crowley whines, and Aziraphale just says yes, yes, _yes._

What this means is Aziraphale taking Crowley to his bed, tossing him down in the unmade sheets. It means Aziraphale’s hands all over Crowley, helping Crowley turn over so that his belly is pressed into the bed, large gaping breaths into Aziraphale’s pillow, hands clutched in the sheets. Aziraphale’s hands, holding Crowley’s hips and palming the angles of his back as he fucks into Crowley from behind, hearing the gasping noises Crowley makes as he continues to ramble, wildly, over a wide range of both topics and octaves as Aziraphale works them both into ridiculous levels of arousal.

It shouldn’t be this good; nothing should be this good. But Crowley is begging, syllables tumbling over other syllables, and Aziraphale’s simply moaning words into his shoulderblades as he moves. He’s trying to make promises, but he’s really just breathing into Crowley’s skin, the inescapable and undisguised rhythm of _I-love-you_ licking out of his mouth and into Crowley’s veins.

At this point he knows Crowley likes his orgasms punched out from his body without warning, and so Aziraphale drives down onto the spot that makes Crowley keen until he feels that sharp angled body stutter underneath him, the way Crowley shakes with the unexpected rush of pleasure, and Aziraphale can’t help the way he folds over Crowley’s back like a flower petal, closing over him tenderly as if this is his to protect.

———

“Here,” says Warlock, sliding a single piece of paper across the table to Aziraphale. “This is their first offer, which means it’s likely to be the best one. That may not seem to make sense, but the longer we draw this out, the more time their legal team has to make ridiculous assumptions.” Warlock’s shoulder tips up, a casual shrug. “Nothing they have will hold up in court better than our argument, see, but… the _longer_ they can argue, the more advantage they have, since their bank account doesn’t exactly have a limit to it. Doesn’t mean we have to take it, entirely, but let me know what you think about it as a starting point?”

“No, yes, makes sense,” Aziraphale says. He slides the paper across the table and smooths it out in front of him with both palms.

It isn’t perfect. Then again, perfection would be an annual salary for doing nearly nothing, an unlimited market for his wildest book ideas, a blog ready to hear him write romantic diatribes to the entirety of the Russian River Valley; that level of perfection doesn’t exist in the world they know. This, instead, is a starting place: freedom over things that handle his own ‘brand’, which Warlock has so helpfully defined in his favor, including both his blog and the novel that secretly sits at the intersection of his head and heart. There’s an agreement that he’ll help develop the outline of the - well, the Bullshit Book - to the point where a ghostwriter can pick up the style and finish it for FTA, which he’s mostly willing to agree to… it’s more than fair, really. There are some other renegotiations, and it seems like it’s still up in the air whether he’s going to move forward as an FTA employee, or break out into the market on his own.

Surprisingly, he understands most of it.

“This seems a decent place to start,” he tells Warlock. The boy’s grin lights up his entire face and this is how Aziraphale realizes just how stressed his assistant has been these last few days; he’s been so caught up with Crowley that he feels like - again; for the millionth time - he’s overlooked Warlock’s needs. But Warlock’s his own man, grown and able to take care of himself; Aziraphale also needs to appreciate that. “You’ve done so very well for us, Warlock.”

Warlock looks away and rubs a hand on the back of his neck, grumbling something. “’S my job,” he says, finally. “If you’re okay with this, I’ll take it and make our first counteroffer.”

It’s more than okay. It sets his blog up as an affiliate rather than as an associate - namely, that his blog is his own property again rather than FTA’s, but that his platform remains within their purview - and makes it clear that everything he’s written for the real book is his own property, and can be sent anywhere he wants. There are advantages if he decides to publish it through FTA, which is interesting; Aziraphale hadn’t thought they’d be interested in this book, but they seem to be giving him options if he wants to stay associated.

The payments on the house stop the next week, but there’s a subsidized option if they want to stay longer; he’ll pay out of his own pocket, and in words towards some FTA outlet, but that’s fine. There’s cost included for a generic flight back from SF to LA, but if he wants to upgrade, that’s out of his own bank account as well. It might be difficult - and it’s all certain to hurt - but it’s as fair as anything Aziraphale ever expected to see from them.

He gives Warlock a final nod, and turns away. With a fumble of his hands through his pocket, he pulls out his mobile, and moves to the contact that’s quickly become the first place he goes with any kind of news.

_Hey,_ he types, his hands surprisingly steady. _We have a starting point._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope you're enjoying, darlings! please leave me a comment and let me know! I couldn't get to all your comments last chapter but I will try to this chapter!
> 
> Coming up in my books: two GO zine submissions, two Reverse Big Bang entries, two Winterhawk Wonderland pieces, more wine cwimes, and more Old Vines... and that's just this month! Want to support me? [Take a peek!](https://seventhe.dreamwidth.org/435490.html)
> 
> Expect Chapter 18 - the last Tasting Flight - to be up in two weeks! I LOVE YOU ALL. YOU VALIDATE AND MOTIVATE ME SO MUCH. YOU'RE ALL DARLING.


	18. A Tasting Flight: Appreciating the Reserve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For anyone who hasn't realized it yet: the Tasting Flights were set up to be every 6 chapters (6, 12, and 18), and are the only pieces of Old Vines that feature POVs other than Aziraphale and Crowley. Initially it was to better frame Aziraphale and Crowley, but since the story involves a lot of the supporting cast, it's also been an opportunity for readers to peek into the minds of the secondary characters.
> 
> In winery parlance, a Tasting Flight is usually a selection of 4-6 wines paired together to showcase something about the winery. A small sample of each wine is given - not a full glass - and the taster can then compare the different flavors of a number of wines without having to drink a glass of each. When doing a tour in Wine Country, most people choose a tasting flight; you can sample multiple types and leave having only consumed the equivalent of a glass. 
> 
> you can see, then, how the concept relates to these chapters. Cheers!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YES IM LATE AGAIN. look.  
> 1\. I lost my 18 year old lady cat to old age. I'd had her for 16 years. The loss is still echoing in this house.  
> 2\. My second contract started up and wow, it's far more intense than expected.  
> 3\. My first job had more work than expected, and I'm broke and cant turn down work.  
> 4\. Thanksgiving.  
> 5\. Covid depression.  
> 6\. Life.  
> 7\. 2020.  
> 8\. holiday money stress. holiday stress. what is today who even knows.
> 
> ANYWAY. Thanks, feral discord, for keeping with me as I go through this, and for all the feral yelling. Thanks to everyone who has been leaving comments -- god, they cheer me up every time I see one. 
> 
> ALSO you may not have noticed the chapter count increasing by one -- **Old Vines will now be 21 chapters**. Too much to wrap up and the rhythm won't sit right otherwise. You're welcome. 
> 
> I adore you all. Enjoy.

Warlock wakes up in Adam’s bed and just can’t make himself smile.

He loves waking up with Adam. Adam’s so _dumb_ in the mornings, and he talks in his sleep, and Warlock’s constantly recording videos where he talks Adam into saying all kinds of ridiculous nonsense. Mainly he’s recording the videos so that when he and Az leave he has something to watch to wake up to, because he’s gotten used to waking up to this kind of shit, and he doesn’t want to think about how long he’ll have to go before he can again.

(Waking up with Pepper _and_ Adam isn’t at all the same. Pepper is a disgustingly early riser and always slips out at some ungodly hour of the morning, but she can also somehow predict the exact moment Warlock and Adam are going to emerge from the bedroom, because she always has coffee and some kind of breakfast ready. Which is nice in its own way, really, it’s just. Different.)

They’ve talked about it. A bit. Pepper, of course, is her own free spirit, and while she’s admitted she’ll miss him, she isn’t looking for anything else. Warlock and Adam have …stumbled. Through it. A bit.

It’s hard for them because neither one knows what their boss will end up doing. Warlock will have to go back to LA with Az, at least in the beginning, because he needs to play some very careful hardball to keep this entire thing from falling apart. And then it depends on what Az wants to do afterwards. Warlock’s aware that he doesn’t have to _stay_ near Az to do his job, but he’s really come to care for the idiot, too. It’s an equation that can’t yet be solved: too many variables.

And Adam’s in a — well, not exactly a similar boat. He and his team have enough clients here to survive, but that would mean they have to keep doing the kind of work they’ve gotten tired of doing, if Crowley turns them down. Adam has threatened multiple times to show up on Warlock’s doorstep in LA if Crowley decides to move in a different direction, and Warlock _does_ enjoy the thought of that: he and Adam taking on the big city. But he fears Adam wouldn’t be happy there for long.

Next to him, Adam rolls over and mutters something about a dog.

Fuck. He’s become comfortable here. But Warlock’s life doesn’t work like that, really. He’s gotten this far by making sure to move the second he gets comfortable, so that he keeps growing. There’s a song about it, that sticks in his head sometimes: _but I’m good at being uncomfortable, so / I can’t stop changing all the time._ That’s the way he got here. He can’t change the way he operates, not even for Adam. Not even for _Az._

He just has to be careful. He’s spent _months_ drawing Aziraphale out of the shell he was stuck in, showing him the bars of the cage he had manifested for himself, and he’s so goddamn proud of Az that he could explode with it. But he probably needs to take some time to think about his own happiness too, right?

He glances over at Adam, who’s now drooling into his pillow. His hair is a mess of curls. Warlock snaps a picture and sends it to Pepper, because he looks ridiculous and someone has to appreciate it; the tangle of his hair too thick to be even real. Sure, it’ll hurt to leave, but…

…huh. But maybe they don’t have to leave quite so soon.

———

Madame Tracy Shadwell - also known as Colleen O’Leary, Mistress Melisande, and Marjorie Potts - is not an idiot. She might be simple, sure; she lives a simple life as a landlord, now, and has a simple husband with simple needs. But simple never, ever means _stupid,_ and people have always underestimated her, haven’t they? They see her garish wigs and her crystal balls (or the leather pinny) and write her off as just another silly woman — and that’s exactly what has gotten her this far in life. Maybe it isn’t a fair game, but she isn’t _making_ them underestimate her. She’s just taking advantage, in her silly little woman way.

And oh, she did like Mister Fell and his lovely assistant Mister Warlock. So kind, they were! Always doing their own laundry, leaving her with only the linens to manage, and even buying their own groceries sometimes when they wanted something specific. Out of pocket, too! They’d been such good houseguests, clean and neat, keeping to their own spaces even in the grand villa they’d ended up in. They’d even brought her wine, on occasion, when they discovered something lovely during one of their day trips.

She’s absolutely sweet on them. Not to _mention_ the way Mister Fell had taken up with her darling Crowley! Golly, she’s _never_ seen Crowley blush so much — or smile so much, really, when he thought no one was looking. Privately, she always thought Crowley deserved someone a little sweet, but also someone that would be able to tell him to go soak his head when necessary. Mister Fell seems _just_ the man. It’s all quite darling.

So when that attractive Mister Warlock had called, hinting cheekily at a way she could maybe help them out a bit, who was she to say no?

“No, I’m sorry, Mister Archer,” she coos into the phone, her voice so sweet only her darling husband would take it in his tea. “I’m terribly sorry. It’s far too late in the year to rent it out again, you see? And it’s just that we’ve made all the plans already, with the original contract. I’ve got deliveries coming in, you know.”

It isn’t hard to out-bluster a corporate bluster-er. Gosh, in her days as Madame Melisande she’d taken _whips_ to young men for less! Now, that had all been strictly consensual and for relaxation, but still. She doesn’t even have to change her _voice._

“Unless you can produce a renter out of thin air, cupcake, I don’t see how that’s going to help me.” Maybe she’s laying it on a bit thick, but the man on the other line seems a bit thick, so it feels justified. She’s keeping her voice light, aiming for halfway between _ditz_ and _flirty._ Poor man won’t even know what hit him. “You understand, don’t you, sunshine? This late in the season, it’s nearly impossible to rent out a villa that big.” A pause, for dramatic effect. “If I’d had more warning, maybe…”

The yelling rolls off of her like …whatever water rolls off of.

“Just make sure the final payment is in before the contract ends, there’s a love.” It’s in her best interest to wrap this up herself. “Coo-ee, Mister Archer. Have a _lovely_ day.”

It isn’t often that she gets to do these kinds of things, so if she tries to flirt with that dashing Mister Warlock when she calls to report back, it really isn’t her fault, is it? He flirts back, that darling, delightful, naughty boy. Tracy’s happy to have thrown her weight around for him. Wouldn’t it be lovely if they stayed?

———

Crowley _does_ wake up smiling.

It’s maybe a rough smile, the edges of his dreams still echoing around the corners of his mouth, but it’s hard to stay swept up in that vague sadness when Aziraphale is snoring beside him.

They’ve been spending nearly every night together, unless Crowley’s had too rough of a day in the fields and just wants to turn in. It could feel desperate, like they’re trying to cram everything into the short period of time they have left, but — it doesn’t. Secretly - and Crowley would never admit this aloud - it feels like a _preview._ Like a _promise._ Like if everything works out, at some point, _this_ is what they have coming to them. This is what they could be. This is the reason they’ll work through all of this; this is the reason he’ll be able to handle Aziraphale being so far away, because at some point in the future, in the end, this is the prize that they’ll get to have.

He slips out of bed. Aziraphale, as it turns out, is _not_ a morning person. Crowley wouldn’t have said he was, but as they’ve become more and more familiar he thinks he might be. There’s something about being up for the dawn and stopping over in the _Ecdyses_ kitchen to start the coffeepot, something about wandering out into his own garden in bare feet and shorts, in being able to note the dew on his grapes before it evaporates in the September heat. It helps to ground him, prepare him for the rest of the day by letting him have these few moments alone and unobserved, toes in the soil and sun on his face.

He’ll wake Aziraphale up before he goes to work, of course. Slide back into his bed and kiss him awake - something he’s found Aziraphale loves - and get to see Aziraphale’s grumpy-sweet smile that only exists in the mornings. He already knows Aziraphale as a decadent, luxurious creature, and this is just one more piece of that: his angel, tucked up in the sheets, grumbling about having to wake up. How is that so endearing? Crowley obviously has no taste.

He has too much to _do._ First, harvest: nothing interrupts harvest. Adam and Pepper have already arranged for the same crew they usually use, a local wine-and-book club filled with folks interested in being part of the process but not interested enough to take the plunged into anything like commitment. Crowley’s had years to put the fear of God into them - or, more accurately, the fear of Crowley - and they all regard him with the kind of frightened awe he thinks is properly respectful. He isn’t going to let just _anyone_ touch his vines, thank you _very fucking much._

They’ll probably start on the Chardonnay in a week, maybe two. He’s been out daily, tasting the grapes and checking the soil, bringing back gorgeously pale bunches to test for sugars and check the color of the seeds. He’s going to teach Anathema to do it, soon — not that he’s going to let her do it on her won, but it’s the kind of thing she’ll enjoy doing. If she’s really going to become a part of this, it’s time for her to start her own notebook to track the harvests from year to year. Knowing Anathema she’ll probably also track the phase of the moon and where Mars is or something, but whatever. Crowley’s the one who eats dirt.

Rumbling at the edges of his subconscious is the thought of the — merger? Deal? Whatever the fuck the word is for it. Whatever the fuck crazy thing he’s agreed to do. Crowley realizes that he’s decided to do it, but he still kind of thinks he’s legitimately fucking insane. The whole thing is … _fuck._ It’s a commitment, and those are scary: he’s committing to _other people,_ to bringing them in and letting them _stay._ No one’s ever stayed. And if he does this, they’re here long-term. No wonder it feels like he’s standing on the edge of a fucking cliff.

Whatever. Harvest first. He needs to go through his database, compare the colors on Ruth to the last three years, see where she was — she might be ready for an early harvest. He still isn’t sure about the fucking Petite Sirah, either; he’s going to have to pull that one up as well. Maybe waiting for a late harvest on that one makes sense — he’s never tried that before. Might be worth it.

He realizes he’s finished his coffee. The sun’s still at that golden angle of morning, fog just evaporating from the vineyard. The sight of it stills his thoughts, as it always has. Crowley is so fucking grateful, suddenly, just a moment where he realizes what kind of absolute fucking disaster he’d be if he didn’t have a way to shut his goddamned brain up. He still has no idea why She left him this space, but wow, somehow She knew.

Enough being sappy out at the vines. If he’s going to have a feeling, he may as well go have it at Aziraphale, who’s certainly still sleeping soundly. In Crowley’s bed, in his room, in his house. Crowley’s still waiting for it to be weird; it still isn’t.

———

Adam thinks they’ve done it.

Crowley hasn’t said anything. Crowley hasn’t said _shit_ and it would be really annoying except that Adam has years of watching Crowley in his back pocket. For someone who postures and postulates as much as Crowley does, he’s really quite easy to read once you can look past the sunglasses and the swagger. It’s the reason Adam’s the head of The Them; he’s always been good at reading people, ever since he was a kid. Something he was born with.

But he’s watching Crowley now, more carefully than ever, and it’s the little things that are giving him away. The way he keeps taking Anathema out to the little lab in the crushing building to show her how to measure the pH, brix, the levels of malic acid. The way his eyes keep flicking over to Brian and Newt in the kitchen, and the way the tension in his mouth relaxes when he does. Crowley keeps his eyes on them far more than usual, as if he’s counting them, checking how many of them are here, in his space.

Adam has Wensleydale leave their proposal on Crowley’s desk. Crowley glares at him for the next three days, but still says nothing, because Crowley is a little shit.

But Adam thinks they’ve got him. There are levels to their offer, and Adam wasn’t sure whether one would speak more loudly than the others. Getting out from Hell Law’s increasingly terrible terms and conditions has to be a big one, but Adam doesn’t know whether Crowley would grab at _any_ chance to do so: it had to be the _right_ offer. Then there’s the buy-in, the chance to let them all have a little bit of ownership of this place they’ve come to love — Crowley does _not_ like to share, but he has to know they’ve got something surprisingly good here. It’s not _just_ money. It’s a chance to take a little bit of weight off of Crowley’s bony shoulders.

As far as he knows how to _read_ Crowley, he doesn’t necessarily _know_ Crowley as intimately; Crowley’s a private bastard, for all he likes to lurk around in the tasting room scaring off tourists, and while Adam considers him a friend he certainly isn’t often treated to Crowley’s inner thoughts.

But he sees the contemplative glint in Crowley’s eyes whenever he’s in the office or the tasting room, and Adam thinks maybe they’ve finally convinced him.

———

“What do you mean we still have the house?” Aziraphale’s set down his tablet, staring at Warlock, who is grinning.

“Worked a little magic,” says Warlock. He’s obviously smug, proud of himself, and it’s a good look on him. “Turns out Madame Tracy was willing to put it to Gabriel, just a bit.” His grin grows. “Turns out that was the nail in the coffin.”

“Oh, Warlock,” Aziraphale says, meaning to sound chastising but actually sounding relieved. He’d been preparing himself for two weeks - two weeks left with Crowley, two weeks left of freedom - and here he is, with a full month in his lap. “You shouldn’t have.”

“Why not?” Warlock collapses into the chair, sprawling in a way that reminds Aziraphale of Crowley. “We’re both enjoying it here. And it’ll help you finish up your real book, won’t it?”

“Oh, absolutely,” Aziraphale assures him. They’ve discussed this — the more he has of his book written, the more leverage they have in this contract negotiation. The real book, that is. Aziraphale still has no idea how Warlock has managed to get FTA to accept so much. Every time he asks, Warlock just laughs and says that big corporate lawyers aren’t that great at checking the small print between the lines. Aziraphale himself feels like big corporations should have very expensive lawyers that keep things like this from happening, but Warlock’s so sure and Aziraphale certainly isn’t going to argue about getting what he wants.

The real book is actually shaping up into something cohesive. Aziraphale’s been reading through his early work, and he could kick himself in retrospect for how obvious he’d been. His discomfort with the situation shines through the early pages; his side comments about Gabriel and about his own anxiety to meet FTA’s expectations mark nearly every page. Likewise, he’d been so gone on Crowley from the very start. He should have known that - even as an expert in lying to himself - the truth would come out on the page.

“Az,” says Warlock, and Aziraphale realizes he’s tuned out.

“Sorry, dear boy. I was thinking about the — the book.”

“Good.” Warlock’s grin comes back. “You wanna hear what I’m thinking for the logistics?”

Aziraphale shrugs. Now is as good a time as any, and it will keep him from eagerly calling Crowley to gush about their extra time.

“So the book’s going to be yours,” Warlock tells him. “But there are advantages to still publishing it through FTA. They do have reach, and even if we do end up taking your blog back in the negotiations, offering to share a bit of the profits from the book in exchange for using their platform isn’t that bad of an idea.”

Those certainly are a lot of words. Aziraphale frowns, trying to figure out what Warlock means.

“We let them advertise the book as something they’re a part of, right? Take advantage of that for _us,_ get you a bigger audience for the future. Then we give them a cut of whatever it sells for. No more than ten percent, honestly; I’m going in at five to settle for seven.”

This is, obviously, Warlock’s realm. Aziraphale thinks about it in general terms, really; this is what he pays Warlock for, isn’t it?

“I’m almost tempted to just, er, well. You know. Just dispose of FTA completely.”

“That’s an option.” Warlock twists in his chair, throwing his legs over the armrest, and that’s _absolutely_ a Crowley move. How is he missing Crowley already, seeing him in everything? “We can do that. If that’s what you want. But think about the options, too. We can absolutely just divorce them, sure, but look big picture.”

Aziraphale frowns again. “Warlock, I’m not sure what you mean.”

“Well.” Warlock leans in, folding his hands together, elbows on the table. “Let me be honest, right? I think our best bet is going to be working with them to publish the first book. Let them have that, let it feel like a win, and use their reach to make your book more successful. Then we have options to consider moving forward. If the book does as well as I predict, FTA will come away having to be satisfied, and it creates a platform for you to publish additional books independently, since your name is out there.” He shrugs. “If we want to be tactical, that’s what I would suggest.”

Warlock reaches out and grabs the last piece of toast, then, and glances back up at Aziraphale. “But we don’t have to be tactical. We don’t have to adhere to the best logistics. This is about you, Az, and if you don’t trust them, we can absolutely leave. We have that room.”

Aziraphale sighs. “I’ll need to think about it. When do we need to know?”

“No rush,” says Warlock. His grin goes crooked. “I mean, by the time we leave here we need to know what we’re doing, but for now, no rush. Go—” He flaps a hand. “Go have a date or something.”

“You’re terrible,” says Aziraphale, but he does pick up his mobile.

———

Anathema, on the other hand, knows immediately. In her gut. It’s a p-word feeling. She knows before Crowley even walks into the place.

She nudges Newt. He glances over at her.

“He’s done,” she murmurs. “He’s going to accept.”

Newt, to his credit, doesn’t even bother to question her. She isn’t sure whether he believes her, or if he wants to believe it, or if he’s just not questioning anything because he’s a polite kind of person. It doesn’t matter. She can tell. Every time she looks at Crowley it’s like a nudge, down in her gut. She’s never been more sure of anything.

“He’ll wait a bit,” Newt says to her. “He isn’t going to say something right away. He’ll make us stew.”

Anathema chuckles under her breath. “Of course he will. It’s _Crowley._ ”

The knowledge of it continues to grow the longer she’s there. She knows their tasting flights by heart, and that helps. There’s the friendly one for a lighter palate, featuring Honey and Psalms alongside The Rains for whites and both Lilith and Judith for reds. There’s their flight for dark reds, which adds in Apocalypse, Adam and Eve, and Ruth instead of the whites. Then there’s their reserve flight, where tasters can compare both Apocalypse and Magnificat Reserve against their fresher cousins. They do also offer a make-your-own flight, but Anathema usually encourages tourists to trust their lineups.

But even as she pours and talks she can feel the certainty, climbing up her spine until it sits in the back of her skull. All of their waiting is over. All the time she and Newt have spent on backup plans, on alternate careers — that’s going to be over. They’re going to be a _part_ of Ecdyses. Finally.

Anathema takes a moment in the basement, as she pulls bottles for their tasting counter, to breathe in deep, and then exhale. It’s going to be okay.

———

Honestly, Pepper thinks, Adam and Warlock are being stupid.

It happens though; they’re guys. They can’t help a certain amount of stupid; it comes built in standard along with the nuts and the Y chromosome. She’s been around long enough to know that this world grows men who can’t talk about their emotions. Typical. She’s been rolling her eyes for weeks.

It’s obvious they’re stupid over each other, but neither one of them wants to admit it. Pepper has known Adam since they were children, and she knows the signs: the way he trails off mid-sentence, the way he makes little things happen for Warlock that might seem like luck but aren’t, the way he’s constantly shifting to include Warlock in their group — be it physically including him in their groups, or making sure their conversation doesn’t veer too far down old memory routes. Adam’s a dead giveaway. Pepper knows far too many of his tells already.

And Warlock’s new, but Pepper can tell he’s equally smitten. She knows enough about Warlock to know he’s never had anyone growing up. His most loyal friend is Aziraphale, but they’re at least a decade apart in age (she thinks more but is smart enough not to ask) and the whole employer-employee thing doesn’t exactly make for a real equal partnership, does it? Someone like that, when they find something good like Adam? Yeah, that’s always easy to see.

She saw it right away, the first time they hung out, in the way they interacted: that way your intuition can tell you two people are not just compatible, but vibing in that really good way, and interested? Yeah, she’s been picking up signs for a while. Hell, half the reason she got involved was to help the two of them out with each other. (The other half is that she finds Warlock attractive in a really strange competent-hobo sort of way, and she really did want to Hit That, if it worked out.)

Pepper’s happy on her own. She’s _so_ happy on her own. She has nothing to worry about, except doing what she wants to do and being her best self. She loves being able to float in and out of things with people without having to, well, consider them; she doesn’t ever want to have to compromise with anyone. She’s tried the word _aromantic_ before, but it doesn’t really encompass how she feels about these kinds of things (not at all like Wensleydale and _asexual,_ a word he’s owned since he learnt it). All this means is that it’s hard for her to give advice to either Adam or Warlock, since she isn’t at all sure of what either of them really wants from something like this.

But even without that experience, she thinks they both need to think of themselves a little more, like she does. Warlock’s locked up with Aziraphale’s career, and Adam’s certainly committed to what they do here, but sweet goddess of the sky, they could try to prioritize themselves and each other for once in their life.

What she does know is that it’s going to be really awful dealing with Adam if something doesn’t happen. For people that want this kind of thing, they pine terribly when they don’t get it. And as Pepper considers herself the protective one of The Them, she’s going to have a lot to say if something stupid happens. With her fists, if it gets that bad.

———

_Is it strange, the way one can travel to a new place and have it feel like coming home?_

_It feels strange. But it feels strange in a way that should truly feel stranger; there is a gap between the discomfort I expect and that which I’m feeling? That in itself is bizarre: when your brain has sorted out all of the statistical analysis and the lessons of experience and has placed this new thing into a category where it truly does not belong? That surprise, the way that the registered trendlines of the past fail to line up with a thing of the present — that is what makes these experiences special._

_But this is more than that. I have traveled to a number of places in my time; I’m perhaps older than my readers might think, and I’ve been all over Europe besides in my younger years, in search of a number of tastes and pairings — to reach flavors I had not yet tasted or seen or heard. That, in fact, has been the driver of this career: to find for myself new combinations of the palate that I might share with others, and then using these experiences to create additional savory moments that require no travel, no special grocery, no farmers’ market. My goal, this entire time - and I can say that now with years of retrospect flashing in my own eyeballs - has been to make these things accessible to everyone, and I will stand by that._

_I want everyone to be able to experience something this charming. I don’t want it to be limited to those who have the resources to travel; I don’t want it to be based in a divide of privilege. My readers all deserve an experience of this magnitude, even when reduced to a magnitude that fits them. I have tried, I have fought and fussed to be able to translate these things into a number of languages._

_And yet. For all of the things I have tasted, and smelled, and felt against my awareness, and tried to gift to people as best I could — this is a new thing. This is a place I traveled to find something new, and yet what I found out here was: myself._

_I have found a note in myself that has been singing for years, but I have not been listening. A pain in my bones that has been aching forever, but I have not been noting it. I have located something inside of me that’s dormant. Like a seed, like a shoot, like the tiny growth of a vine when spring comes upon it._

_I came out here to - well - produce a certain output. To talk to you about techniques, and growing seasons, and the way things here are so different from the very strict methods I’m used to. And instead, I found a wild river to drown in. The flavors here are rich and thick; the land is bright and strong._

_I found a self inside myself that’s more true to me than I have been. And what a sentence to write!, but it’s the truth; I did not realize how far I’d drifted, these last few years. A part of it was finding someone - the most special of someones to meet, that person that seems to have half of your heart inside their own chest - and a part of it was the setting, and a part of it was myself._

_And my assistant. My glorious assistant. Maybe I’ll dedicate this book to him; I owe him more than he’ll ever realize._

———

“Alright,” Crowley says, and hands the folder back to Adam. It’s that simple.

Adam glances inside — oh, that would have been good, Crowley should have put something really embarrassing into the folder. A dick pic, or that golden retriever puppy that’s sleeping kind of shaped like a dick, or like, an inexplicable meme about cars: something to give Adam a double-take. Okay. He thought he’d worked out most of his anxiety about this… and okay, maybe he had, but the situation itself is churning up additional anxiety as it happens. That’s no good.

The expression on Adam’s face is pretty good, though. Crowley allows himself a moment to fully enjoy it, because he really is a little shit. Adam glances back down into the folder, and and then glances up at Crowley. He looks confused. “And?”

Crowley says nothing and tries very hard not to smile. Adam looks so lost. It’s hilarious. Okay, the anxiety is settling now. It’s getting funny.

“Crowley,” he says, sounding irritated. “And? Yes? No? You have to say something.”

“I said, _alright,_ ” Crowley says, and waits for it to sink in. In Adam’s defense, it doesn’t take that long; his eyes widen and it looks like he’s trying not to smile either.

“Yeah?”

Crowley nods. For all that he’s angsted over this, it turns out it’s surprisingly easy to let it happen. All the static in his ears is softly dying down, and for once the silence is — not threatening.

“Shit,” says Adam. “Fuck! Shit!” There’s a pause, and then again: “Oh, fuck!”

For a second Crowley can’t help the faint giggle that escapes his throat. It’s so fucking funny, somehow, Adam reduced to swearing by it. Maybe the giggle is half panic, as Crowley agrees to something that will forever change his life and the way he does business. Okay, maybe more than half. But it’s the good kind of anxiety - _mostly_ \- and also a lot more amusing than expected.

Adam’s staring down at the folder, but then his eyes snap up to Crowley’s face again, and he explodes: “Dammit, Crowley,” and then they’re hugging. It’s a bit unexpected and Crowley doesn’t think Adam’s ever hugged him before, but it’s nice, all things considered; Adam’s good at it. And then Adam’s off, yelling more terrible words at the top of his lungs as he stumbles back into the offices.

Crowley can feel Anathema’s eyes on him. “Don’t tell me you knew,” he said. “Just don’t.”

“Few days ago,” she says, smugly. He ignores it, because here come Brian and Newt from the kitchen, and Brian throws an entire cinnamon roll at him and yells, “Crowley, _yes!”_ The cinnamon roll strikes Crowley head-on, dead in the chest, and he just kind of freezes as it drops to the ground, broken into a couple pieces, one sticking as it tumbles down his leg.

“What the actual fuck,” Crowley says, and looks down at his shirt. The icing is still warm and a bit damp. Shrugging, he runs a finger through it and tastes it. Still delicious.

“I had to throw something and it was the first thing I grabbed,” Brian tells him, and that makes absolutely no sense but whatever, fuck it.

Eventually everyone’s standing behind the counter, all four of The Them and Anathema and Newt and Crowley, and he fucking hates thinking it but this is his little _family_ here, this is his, he can have this. He isn’t giving up anything about _Ecdyses_ : he _made_ this, with his own fingers and feet and fucking teeth. This is a _part_ of that. This is a thing that he has done for _himself._ This is a group of people that will care about and love this place much like he does.

“Speech, speech!” Brian starts cheering and Crowley picks up part of the cinnamon roll and throws it at Brian’s head. Some of it sticks in his hair and Brian gives him this betrayed face as if Crowley crashed into his stupid car. It’s just icing. Brian has had _so much worse._

“I’m not saying anything,” Crowley says. His throat already feels oddly tight. “I’m saying nothing. Don’t make a big deal out of this.”

“But it is,” Newt says. “It’s a big deal for us, at least.”

“And for you,” Anathema adds, gently.

“Yeah,” Crowley says, trying to keep his voice steady. He isn’t going to cry over his own fucking winery. “That’s why we aren’t going to talk about it.”

“You big wanker,” Pepper says. She claps Crowley on the shoulder; he tries not to stumble, but appreciates it. “We’re going to have to talk through the details anyway.”

“Yeah,” Crowley repeats. There’s too much emotion in his throat and he absolutely isn’t going to do this here; they may have earned his trust and a partnership, but they haven’t exactly earned access to all of his inner turmoil and his tears. He swallows down what he can because he can tell he has to say something, but he’s really about to call _witchcraft_ and make Anathema defuse this entire situation.

“So, thanks,” he says awkwardly. “Now fuck off.”

Adam hoots; Pepper punches him in the arm, but Brian’s laughing now, with cinnamon roll icing in his hair. Wensleydale picks up the folder and nods primly, mostly to himself. It’s Anathema and Newt who reach out, bringing Crowley into the kind of group hug that has three too many feelings for him to deal with in front of people he still wants to think that he’s moderately a cool person. He ducks out as soon as he can and grumbles at them, even though it did feel really nice.

They’re all staring at him, so he peeks over his sunglasses and says, “I mean it, fuck off, or I’m taking it all back.”

He certainly isn’t imagining the way they all positively skip out of the kitchen, like happy children. Disgusting. He needs to go home and scream into a pillow.

(Except his heart is warm, warm, fucking swelling, and his mind is for once turned to the future.)

———

“Oh, look, Angus,” Tracy says to her husband. She holds up the postcard. “It’s the invitation to that lovely Master Crowley’s Harvest Day.”

Angus grunts. It might seem offensive, but one of the things Tracy actually appreciates about her husband is that he never pretends to be anything more or less or different than what and how he is. He isn’t a man of many words, her Sergeant Shadwell, but that means he never fakes a response to her either — and after the number of men she’s dealt with in her careers, that’s actually something precious.

“You know you don’t have to go,” she tells him, through a smile. Last year Angus had tried to stick with her and help, but they’d been next to that Anathema Device, and Angus had decided to have a fit about her witchy ways and had left the vineyard. Tracy secretly knows his hip was probably bothering him, and that he’d rather show his support by drinking silently in the corner reading a newspaper, so she’d let it happen. Anathema had been so delightfully scandalized, and they’d spent the next two hours talking about crystals.

“Och,” he says, “oh I’ll go. Not just gonna let mah wee Jezebel out there on yer own.” It’s a small thing, the nicknames he gives her, but Angus isn’t prone to sweet words at all, so she takes them as she must.

“Actually,” she says, as if she’s just thinking of it now. “I think there’s some damage done around one of Anthony’s doors. Maybe if you brought your toolbox, rather than going down the rows harvesting you could help him patch that right up, couldn’t you?”

“Ah, I see what yer about, ye wee harridan,” Angus says, but he’s smiling up at her now, relieved to have another task to focus on. They appreciate each other, she and her Sergeant. After so long, they know what they like.

“Just a thought,” Tracy says innocently, because she likes the game, but she’s satisfied.

———

“The Chard’s nearly ready to go,” Crowley tells Aziraphale as they stroll through the vines. “Same with Ruth and Lydia — the Pinots usually go early. The Zins and the old vines usually take the longest. Don’t tell Anathema,” he tacks on. “I want to see if she figures it out herself. This is her first year testing, and she’s not gonna figure it out, but I’mma give her the chance at least.”

Aziraphale smiles to himself. He reaches out to touch one of the bunches; it’s variegated, each grape a different shade of red-violet. The deepest ones are a purple so dark it’s almost blue. They’re absolutely lovely.

“Go on,” Crowley says, stopping suddenly. “I know you want to try some.”

Well, of _course he wants to try some._ “Are they — have they, er, ripened enough?”

“Don’t eat the green ones.” Crowley grins “Here, we’ll go wander towards Lydia, they’re mostly ripe enough to taste like grocery grapes.”

Aziraphale waits until Crowley’s already turned, and then plucks one of the darker grapes off of the color-mottled bunch and pops it into his mouth. Oh, interesting: it’s tart _and_ sweet at the same time, such that his mouth wants to pucker but also immediately wants another one. The sweetness isn’t overbearing or _rich_ , like a concord grape — it’s fresh, somehow, with a crispness to it.

And, hilariously, it doesn’t taste like anything he’s ever tasted in a bottle of wine.

He hurries to catch up to Crowley, who throws him an amused look (Aziraphale knows these looks now, even behind Crowley’s sunglasses) but says nothing. As they continue, Crowley reaches out to take Aziraphale’s hand; Aziraphale twines his fingers between Crowley’s and ducks his head to hide his smile. He’s continually, pleasantly surprised that someone who goes to the trouble to seem standoffish all the time is so — well. _Touchy._ Crowley’s always finding excuses to touch him: a hand to the small of his back, the nudge of an elbow, stylish boots kicking at his loafers under the table. Aziraphale _loves_ it - he’s always loved physical contact; in fact, he’d been a bit too much for previous lovers of his - and he does everything that he can to encourage it from Crowley. Especially now; they’re both aware of the upcoming deadline.

The vineyard is just so lovely. The bunches of grapes are all nearly saturated with color, and some of the leaves are starting to turn, a pale yellow that strikes a suitable contrast against the blue-black of the ripened bunches. Aziraphale again feels that strange feeling welling in his breast, like he’s _home._ No place in America has ever made him feel like this; it’s a feeling he recalls from his days in London, before circumstances prompted him to take the leap and move to California.

And he could be bitter about that, but for what? He’s _proud_ of himself, finally, for taking that risk; there was a part of him that never would have, and in that case, who knows how much he would have grown? His experience with FTA hasn’t been all bad; it _has_ made him stretch, has made him hone his craft, and in the end it’s taught him so much about himself that it’s been worth it, no matter the cost.

And Crowley. Aziraphale won’t ever regret Crowley. Even if all of this fades, even if none of it works out, he’ll always treasure Crowley.

“Here,” Crowley says, breaking Aziraphale’s thoughts back up into separate clouds. He’s holding out a handful of white grapes, and Aziraphale takes them, puts one in his mouth. It’s somehow lighter and sharper than the red grapes, even though there’s a definite sweetness to them too, and again, Aziraphale tastes nothing of the bottle in the grape. Maybe this is why he and Crowley taste such different things in the wine: their palates are separated by the winemaking process itself, the crushing and blending and fermenting and aging.

Aziraphale starts laughing.

Crowley, after a few narrow glances and some gently-thrown elbows, demands to know what’s so funny.

“They taste nothing like wine!” Aziraphale chortles laughter, stopping so that he can bend over, brace his hands on his thighs. “Nothing at all!” He’s somehow overjoyed to discover this — that, after everything he’s learnt, all the tastes and flavors he can pull from a single sip of wine, the source grapes are just — grapes. They taste a bit different than grocery grapes, sure, and with enough sampling he’s sure he could learn to differentiate them, but: it’s just a fruit. Just an ingredient.

And there’s something _hilarious_ about this. Probably as an analogy to the way he and Crowley taste wine: Crowley tastes the inputs, the sun and the soil, whereas Aziraphale can only describe the aftermath of the entire production. It’s two different views, fitting together somehow. It’s a complimentary thing; just another way they’re in balance. Before and after; natural and inferred, instinct and training. After all this time there’s still so much they can learn from each other.

Aziraphale finds he can’t actually explain it at all - not in words he has to verbalize, sure, but he feels like there’s a dark secret chapter of his book writing itself in his ribcage right now - so instead he tugs Crowley down to kiss him, and kiss him again, trying to punctuate the happiness he’s feeling just in this single moment, the way his whole self bubbles with joy like champagne.

———

Warlock’s very good at compartmentalization. It’s how he survived his own childhood, really, by putting one entire set of feelings into a box and a set of behaviours into another, and then pulling each persona out accordingly depending on whether it was his mum, or his dad, or both. He still doesn’t really miss them. Sometimes he misses the concept of it, like the thought that he could go home and try harder and they’d be able to figure out how to be family, but he also knows that isn’t at all how it works. He’s learnt aloneness as a creed, and his independence is built into his spine, and he doesn’t really think any of that needs to change.

But then Adam picks his head up off of Warlock’s shoulder, all sweat-drenched and orgasm-lazy, and says, “I think I love you, man.”

Warlock doesn’t exactly freeze - he himself is too sex-stupid to react all that much - but he does kind of still himself and say, “Huh?”

“Christ,” says Pepper, who rolls out of the bed from beside them. “Cheek. I’m going for a swim. You two have to work this out on your own.”

Warlock doesn’t even glance over to watch Pepper dress, even though Pepper’s backside is one of the wonders of the modern world. He’s just looking at Adam, who’s looking down at him with an expression Warlock can’t read. He feels like Adam’s looking all the way into the back of his _throat,_ as if there’s something writ out on the inside of his skull that Adam’s reading now, and while it isn’t necessarily uncomfortable it’s a bit unexpected.

Finally, Adam speaks, and there’s a soft smile on his face as he does. “No need to respond, no need to say it back, and no need to feel like it changes anything.” The smile twists. “I just wanted to know what it felt like to say it out loud.”

Warlock swallows, because he’s suddenly wondering what it would feel like from his own mouth. Does he love Adam? Is he in love with this? As if he could even know: his love maps were built on faulty infrastructure and a timetable of trains that were always, always too late. He has no idea what this is. What it could be. He’s never, ever said those words to anyone. He gets the feeling that Adam says them — not a _lot,_ maybe, that’s the wrong word; perhaps a lot more freely than Warlock could ever say them.

“Stop thinking,” Adam murmurs, and traces over Warlock’s eyebrows with a finger. This stupid move is so relaxing. Every time Adam does it, for whatever reason, Warlock can feel the tension dissipating in his brain. Why does it work? Who the fuck knows. Maybe Adam’s some kind of angel.

Adam flops back onto Warlock, all of his weight coming to settle, and Warlock wraps his arms around Adam more tightly than usual. “Nothing changes,” Adam says. “Except I might say it again. That’s all.”

———

Newt can’t stop swinging Anathema around the small open space in the living room of their cottage. Every time they try to stop to get a hold of themselves, one of them starts giggling, and then they’re dancing again. Dancing poorly - neither one of them could carry a tune in their own back pocket - but dancing, giddy, with the knowledge that they can finally put down roots where they want.

“I still don’t believe he said yes,” Newt murmurs into Anathema’s ear. He’s drawn her close, because it’s far easier to sway in a circle than it is to prance around pretending that they know how to waltz. Newt would learn, for Anathema, if she asked. God, days like this he can feel his heart crystallizing around her. They’ve come so far and he loves her so damn much.

“I didn’t think he was going to,” Anathema breathes. She’s giddy too, although some of that is the Pinot Gris they brought home to celebrate. “I didn’t. All the auras were wrong, and I thought Adam had jumped the gun, and the timing was going to ruin the whole thing, but…” She presses her cheek into Newt’s, sighing. “Then I saw him a few days ago and I knew.”

“What do you think changed?”

He can feel her shrug as she sinks even farther into his embrace. Newt loves Anathema like this, when she lets herself be held; she doesn’t often admit she likes this kind of thing, but after so many years, Newt’s learnt to read her body language. “Not sure. Maybe it was Aziraphale, I guess. Or Adam’s timing was right after all.”

Newt presses a kiss under Anathema’s ear, and then licks at the spot when she shivers unexpectedly. “Huh,” he says, as if just discovering this erogenous zone for the first time. “Is that enjoyable, then? You like that?”

Anathema retaliates by pressing an open-mouthed kiss into the stubble on Newt’s jaw, and the way she lets her teeth drag dull across his skin lights up a whole bunch of nerves in his pants area. “Let’s celebrate, Mr. Device.”

“Of course, Ms. Pulsifer,” he says to her, and lets her tug him upstairs.

———

Aziraphale sits at the desk in his lovely room and stares down into his tablet.

A plan, he thinks. While he’s found it surprisingly easy, over the last few days, to let his mind wander down paths considering what he might actually want to do with his situation, Aziraphale’s been finding it quite difficult to take those things and turn it into anything concrete.

First, it’s because that’s what he pays Warlock to do, and so he’s entirely out of practice at that kind of critical thinking. Second, the act of putting words down in a document seems so sullenly final; apparently Aziraphale can say them out loud, to grapes at midnight and to Warlock in private, but when it comes to setting them down in text, his confidence falters.

The truth is, Aziraphale doesn’t really know how to react. He’s normally a forgiving person, and he can’t ever really see himself wanting to _punish_ someone who may have done him harm; he’s far more the kind of person who simply wants to put _distance_ between himself and his historical bad decisions, rather than _drama._ But he also can’t tell if he’s overreacting with this. There’s a certain small and greedy part of him that wants to pull everything away, hold it close, claim it all for himself — but he feels like that’s just his little petty bits surfacing. He isn’t really sure it’s a fight he wants to fight.

Either way, it’s clear that the next big step in this is face-to-face meetings with FTA Legal in Los Angeles. Warlock has scheduled their first meeting three weeks out. It gives them both two and a half weeks to experience the harvest period with _Ecdyses,_ which will be just _lovely,_ before they have to move out of _Le Petit Olivet._ In that time Warlock has been working with him to figure out their goals, what they’re willing to settle for, and where to start in the negotiations. It’s _incredibly difficult._

It’s very difficult for Aziraphale to think this way, first and foremost, but he’s working on it. Having Crowley helps, not because Crowley’s any better at negotiation, but because Crowley thinks Aziraphale deserves everything in the world, and is constantly tumbling Aziraphale down to the nearest surface to prove it. Which is maybe not so productive, but it’s fun. Delightfully enjoyable, like everything is with Crowley.

 _My words,_ Aziraphale types into the blank document eventually. _My book. My blog back. My language, no matter how fanciful it may sound._ These are tenuous concepts, not negotiable points, but this is the language that Aziraphale speaks in. He lets his brain relax into that unique space it’s inhabited since they arrived here in wine country, sets his fingers on the keys, and begins to type. Maybe it will be another chapter of his book, and maybe it won’t, but it _will_ be a way to get his thoughts out here on the page. 

The book will tell him where he wants to go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, any readers who participated in or read the Ask Gabriel nonsense, get excited:
> 
> For the next three (3) days, my tumblr is open for **Ask Ecdyses!** The focus will be on the entire Ecdyses staff, but Crowley _may_ pop in and out while he tried to keep an eye on the activity. Anyway, the last one was so much fun I've decided that this chapter marks a good time to do another, so:
> 
> [Ask Ecdyses Staff Anything](https://sevdrag.tumblr.com/ask) here! (Feat. Anathema, Newt, Adam, Brian, Pepper, Wensleydale. Crowley is supposedly out on a date.)
> 
> Thanks for reading and for everyone who sticks with my haphazard update schedule. I love your comments. Please talk to me.


	19. Harvest

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fuck.
> 
> 1\. any time i try to commit to posting the next chapter on X date, america goes batshit somehow and i end up losing days of my life to existential horror. plus holidays, plus i got out three fics for various exchanges + another one as a gift, totally unrelated to GO, so, yeah. OV20 will be up in FAR less than a month but y'know, im not gonna commit to a date cause im afraid of what will happen if i do lmao.
> 
> 2\. im also dragging my feet cause i realized this fic is almost OVER and it gave me some ANXIETY. this fic is my child, and im not dealing well with the fact that there's only one chapter left and the epilogue. it's okay now, though, because i've redirected that energy into my NEXT good omens fic, which will be an in-canon adventure! -- more about that later.
> 
> 3\. this baby is a doozy look harvest is a very crazy time at a vineyard and i wanted to capture how crazy it was so i, uh, unleashed an army of OCs on it. yes i named them after friends. yes this thing is like 11K. _stop yelling_
> 
> 4\. LOVE YOU. PLEASE STICK WITH ME UNTIL THE END.

“Oi!” Crowley yells over the bustle of the small crowd gathered in front of the crushing building. “Shut up!”

The gathering of locals - the wine and book club that helps him harvest every year - all turn their attention on him, rather than each other. It’s godawful early, something like six AM, and Crowley’s grumpy enough to power an entire motorcycle. Harvest works best at dawn and dusk, when the day is at its coolest; that doesn’t mean he likes it. Anathema and Newt are in the kitchen, filling giant thermoses with coffee, and they can’t move fast enough.

“Listen up, fives, a ten is speaking,” someone yells from the back of the group, and most of them laugh. There are about a dozen here today, and Crowley recognizes most of them from previous years. That bodes well for today, at least. It’s probably one of the Sams yelling at him; they enjoy trying to make him angry.

“Right,” he says, starting to pace back and forth in front of them, hands on his hips. “Most of you know the rules. Two people per row with one bin. Snip the bunches, don’t pull them. Leave all the bad shit on the ground. This includes bugs, Charley, I don’t want to see you tossing them in this year.”

“It adds flavor,” Charley yells back, grinning.

“How do we know what’s bad?” This is someone new - nametag says Claire - and Crowley appreciates the question. He hates when people come in thinking they know more than he does about this.

“I’ve got examples,” he says, and points to the table; he’d spent the previous night wandering the Chardonnay with a flashlight, looking for bad bunches. “If the grapes look small and hard, throw it on the ground. If some of the grapes in the bunch are split, throw them out. Any signs of rot, mildew — take it off the vine, put it in a plastic bag, I’ll throw those out separately. Here’s what the good bunches look like. Sam, stop eating my examples.”

Sam smiles and pops another grape into their mouth.

“The Chard is at peak,” Crowley continues. He crosses his arms and glares at the group. “Those of you who are available, you’ll be back here tonight, and we’ll go as late as you can stand. I’ve got the lights, same as last year. I’d like to get it all done over the next couple days.”

Someone from the back - Martin, he thinks - yells, “Are you paying us this year?”

“Same as always,” Crowley shoots back. “In food and coffee.”

A great deal of harvest is, in fact, chaos: sampling from multiple areas of each type of grape, tracking the levels of sugar and acidity and composition over time, trying to logistically plan out the best time to harvest each one with the knowledge that there’s only one set of crushing equipment available no matter how many hands he gets. Crowley’s used to this. His brain feels like it’s running on battery acid and caffeine. He’s working on three hours of sleep. This is normal. They have all winter to recover from the blitz that is harvest, and most of them are used to it.

The actual physical harvest, however, is usually pretty smooth. The locals all think it great fun to help snip the grapes from the vines; Crowley hovers around in the background and occasionally stalks them all to make sure they’re doing it right, and yells a lot. He and Anathema work up at the building, dumping grapes from the wheeled bins onto the giant tray that feeds the destemmer-crusher, acting as the last line of quality assurance. Newt makes the sandwiches. This year will be different, because The Them - who usually join in when they can - will be a lot more involved in everything. That’s fucking nervewracking.

Crowley keeps glancing over at the parking lot, but he knows Aziraphale isn’t a morning person and probably won’t arrive until they’re well into the first few rows of the Chard. That’s fine. The Sams will be gossiping and Madame Tracy will be chatting with Anathema and Crowley will be bellowing at somebody to do better — Aziraphale will easily be able to find them. Doesn’t mean Crowley’s not full of excited anxiety. He wants Aziraphale _there._ Should have asked him to stay the night.

“Oh, thank god,” says Claire, and Crowley looks up to see Anathema and Newt approaching, arms full of thermoses and plates. Half the group moves in that direction to help carry the first of the morning’s refreshments.

“No coffee on the grapes,” Crowley warns. “Martin, I’m watching you.”

He watches as the group starts to pair off and head off to their rows. Each pair gets their own bin - a cross between a wheelbarrow and a garbage can on wheels - and shears for each person. Charley’s already jumped into their bin, and the other Anthony is pushing them in circles. Madame Tracy is elbowing her husband in Crowley’s direction. It’s too early for any of this nonsense.

“Start whenever you’re ready!” Crowley yells. “We’re already behind schedule!”

“Overlord,” a Sam yells back, and Crowley rolls his eyes.

———

Aziraphale shows up around ten, travel mug full of tea in one hand and cinnamon roll in the other, and there’s something inside Crowley that relaxes, finally, once those soft pale curls come into sight.

“Terribly sorry, dear boy.” Aziraphale twinkles up at him and Crowley feels stupid with affection. “I did set the alarm, but I had a devil of a time getting to sleep last night, and I must have turned the thing off entirely.”

“We’re just about to wrap up,” Crowley tells him. They stop harvesting once it grows too hot for comfort, not because Crowley cares about the crew but because it’s better for the grapes to be harvested cool. Once they warm up, the sugar level can fluctuate, so they’ll have to wait until around eight PM to start again.

Aziraphale just hums. He seems calmer, more settled. Crowley, on the other hand, still feels like a live wire; he wonders whether touching Aziraphale might ground him, bleed all of this fucking static out of his ears and down into the soil.

“So how is it going so far?” Aziraphale asks, nibbling at the cinnamon roll. “Or is it still too early to tell?”

“Shit,” Crowley says. “Fuck. You want the tour?”

The way Aziraphale grins up at him is an obvious answer. Shit. Why is he _so bad at this._

“So the peons pick the grapes,” Crowley begins, gesturing out to the fields. “They bring them in, and push the bin into the lift, so that the grapes all dump out here. Nath and I look them over, right, pull out any grapes that just can’t cut it and chuck ‘em towards the compost.” There’s an extra-large garbage bin standing a bit apart from the process, with its lid open; the number of grapes lying on the ground around it are proof that neither Crowley nor Anathema has very good aim.

Aziraphale lets his fingers trail over the grapes in the tray. Fuck, Crowley’s proud of the Chardonnay this year: big fat sweet grapes, soft and translucent, gorgeous and yellow-green. They’re going to be amazing. Aziraphale plucks one up, pops it into his mouth, and winks at Crowley; Crowley very decidedly does not fucking swoon, but it’s a close call.

“This is the destemmer-crusher,” he says with a grandiose gesture. “Replaced it seven years ago. Worth every goddamn cent.”

“Oh, my.” Aziraphale’s eying the contraption as if he wants to be taking notes. “And how on earth does this work?”

Crowley gives it a fond slap, running his hand over the smooth metal. “Destemming first. This bad boy takes the grapes from the feed and basically spins them around in this cylinder. Grapes come out of the side holes, stems are caught inside.” He’s making motions with his hands that probably mean nothing to Aziraphale, but he’s trying to - shit - why the fuck is he still trying to _impress_ Aziraphale? Is he _showing off?_ Hell, that’s embarrassing.

“Once the stems are out, grapes go through the crusher. That guy presses enough to break the grapes open, but not so much that it crushes up the seeds and the stems, cause that releases all kinds of mess into the mix. Tannins, astringents, fucks up the whole thing. Process there changes based on what we’re making.”

Aziraphale’s trying to peer into the destemmer, but he isn’t quite tall enough, and his pout is so adorable Crowley wants to kiss it off his face. He needs to stop being so fucking _besotted._ “Do continue, darling.”

 _Darling._ Shit, he really is going to lose it, here, in public, in front of his harvesting crew. That’s not cool at all. He adjusts his sunglasses and tries to quell the flush he can feel building on his own face. “For a white, we set the press lower, to get the juice and pulp out, and then we run it through what’s basically a filter to separate out not just seeds and stems, but skins as well.” He gestures at the control panel, which will make no sense to a novice. “For reds we can change the settings as to what’s left in. With the Zin, I like leaving the smaller bits of stem and seed in. Gives, uh, a better picture of the actual grape bunch on the vine.”

Why the fuck is he _still blushing?_

“Is that standard?”

Crowley shrugs. “Depends on the winery and the viticulturalist. Some purists always leave ‘em in, say they add the flavor of whatever summer there was. Others pull as much out as they can so that the wine focuses on the grape. All depends on taste, angel.”

“Fascinating,” Aziraphale says, like he really believes it - like he thinks Crowley and his choices are fascinating - and Crowley swallows, throat suddenly tight.

Rather than processing those emotions, Crowley steps out and blows his whistle. He likes to be as obnoxious as possible to the harvesting crew, but it’s also warming up to the point where he doesn’t want anyone pulling bunches now. “C’mon in!” he yells, and then turns to grin at Aziraphale. “Morning harvest is over. Mark your _places,_ people.”

Crowley watches as the teams react. One of the Sams throws him the middle finger, and he replies with gusto. Aziraphale watches with curiosity as the teams tie their scarves and bandannas around the vines and the trellis to mark where they’ve stopped harvesting.

“Is this — who do you have helping?” Aziraphale asks. “Is this a hired crew? Professionals? Are there professional harvesters? I don’t even know what I’m asking.”

“Don’t worry, angel,” Crowley says, and finally finds the courage to wrap his arm around Aziraphale’s shoulders and squeeze. He’s ready to drop it if Aziraphale freezes up or just doesn’t react, but to his surprise, Aziraphale leans into his body with a happy, satisfied hum. Well. That’s. A thing that happened. They’re here in public in front of strangers and he’s cuddling a man wearing a bow-tie in ninety-degree heat. The other Anthony is going to make _so much fun of him._

“It’s brunch time,” he says. “I’ll introduce you.”

———

Crowley doesn’t _have_ friends. Crowley doesn’t _want_ friends.

Except there’s Anathema and Newt, who are pretty much his best friends now, and he has to admit it. Even though he should have learnt his lesson about being friendly with work associates eleven years ago. Nath and Newt are different; they’ve been honest and upfront with him from the start, and Crowley’s never felt like they were out to _get him._ After his fall from grace, he has a sixth sense about when that’s happening, at least.

And there’s Adam, who isn’t really a best friend, but is some combination of apprentice and buddy that Crowley can’t exactly put a name on. And the rest of The Them, cause they’re a bit more than coworkers, even if they aren’t bosom buddies.

And there’s Madame Tracy, and her grouchy husband, and the harvest team, and a bunch of regulars who pop into _Ecdyses_ for lunch, and… they may not all be actual _friends,_ but Crowley really hasn’t realized until now that he’s been quite so _friendly._

And that - that - _that,_ that’s _embarrassing_ , that’s what that is.

There’s even Bee, who’s an enemy as much as a friend, but Crowley remembers liking their horrible sense of humor and their sarcastic timing and thinks, maybe outside of Hell Law’s influence, there’s another thing there.

When the fuck did he become so _established._

He wants to pull Aziraphale to him, to wrap his arms around his angel and declare he’s _entirely off limits, yes that means you, Bird Sam,_ and introduce him as his partner, his chosen, his one. He needs a goddamn lobotomy. This is getting ridiculous. Aziraphale is _leaving,_ even, he’s going to be far away for a _while,_ and Crowley’s okay with that. Needs to be okay with that. Will be okay with that.

Crowley isn’t sure how he ended up with the support circle that he has, but there’s a freshly scraped raw place inside of him that’s starting to realize he’s going to need all of it, very soon.

———

The harvest crew has broken up. About half of it has gone home; the other half has relocated to the tasting room, for the brunch-lunch Crowley provides every morning they harvest. Brian’s here; he and Newt are taking orders for personalized mini-quiche, and Crowley’s not hungry at all but it sounds so good he plans to get one anyway. Pepper and Wensley are behind the tasting bar, talking with the group. Eleven AM sounds too early to start drinking for pretty much everyone, except when you’ve been up since the ass-crack of dawn harvesting grapes in California heat. There’s a lot of chilled Chardonnay being ordered.

Crowley slips Aziraphale back behind the tasting bar; with this crowd, Aziraphale’s obviously on his side rather than theirs, and besides he figures Aziraphale will get a kick out of it. “Alright,” he says, starting to go through the crowd. “These are some of the regulars, they’re in a club thingy, volunteer every year to help out with the harvest for fun, food, and free wine. I’ve beaten most of them into shape at this point, they aren’t bad at it.”

Aziraphale sidles up next to him. Their shoulders brush against each other. Crowley wonders whether it would be too much to take Aziraphale’s hand.

“Oi!” Sam yells. “Crowley, Christ! You found one you haven’t scared off yet?”

Crowley turns on them, glaring behind the sunglasses — and then freezes as Aziraphale approaches, shakes their hand, smiles.

“Nice to meet you,” he says. “I’m Aziraphale. Crowley’s …partner.”

Aziraphale says it with no fanfare, no aplomb, no angst or regret or concern. Aziraphale says it like he’s ordering a glass of Cabernet at a bar. Aziraphale says it like he’s talking about the weather. Crowley melts.

“That’s Other Sam,” he says, stalking his way up to Aziraphale’s side and gesturing. “Over there’s Bird Sam. When they team up, damn, you gotta be careful.” He gestures. “That’s Martin, kinda crazy, and then over there’s Charley. Definitely crazy. Claire’s new but might be the quickest of all of them. Inferior Anthony’s in the corner, talking with Tracy and glaring at me.”

Aziraphale makes a sound that’s full of disbelief and humor both. “I’m not even sure what to,” he starts, and then collapses into giggles. “Inferior Anthony?”

Crowley shrugs, then raises a hand to his mouth, yelling: “Oi, Anthony! Changed your name yet?”

“Why would I?” They make a vaguely offensive gesture. “Best Anthony in the room, mate.”

“The disrespect,” Crowley calls, shaking his head. “In my own goddamn house.”

“Right in front of my salad,” Martin adds.

Pepper snorts. “It’s more likely than you think,” she says.

“No ganging up,” Crowley warns, “or you’re all fuckin’ fired.”

“Like you pay us anyway,” Claire calls out, angrily gesturing their fork at Crowley.

“I hate everything,” Crowley tells Aziraphale, but Aziraphale is grinning, glowing, as if all of this back-and-forth is feeding back into him and creating this amusement that’s almost tangible.

“I think it’s lovely, darling,” says Aziraphale, drawing him down into a long, surprisingly naughty kiss.

When Crowley recovers, the entire room is yelling. One of the Sams is wolf-whistling at him, and he doesn’t even care.

———

The afternoons during harvest always pass slow and sticky, like molasses; like the lingering juice from a grape.

Crowley oversees the sorting and the destemming and the crushing. He takes notes. He takes measurements. He presses his juice out of the skins, and sends it into the stainless steel vessels lined up against the wall. He tries to get each blend as similar in measurements as possible before he fills up his barrels and has the stronger, younger folks wheel them off for storage.

Sometimes he naps, since evening harvest is a thing, and he needs to stay awake. So very aware, catching stems and leaves and detriment, sorting through the grapes. Can’t let anything through. Can’t make a single mistake. Can’t fuck up the product, can’t slip a millimeter; there be dragons, there lies failure.

Normally it isn’t good for him to be this hazy this early along in harvest. Crowley has to _last;_ he’s the one making all the decisions on blending and barreling and when to stop and start the harvesting. He shouldn’t be this cloudy, not now. But there’s so much else going on in his head: the merger, Aziraphale, Hell Law, The Them, Aziraphale, his loans, his future, Aziraphale.

He’s losing focus already. This isn’t good, it isn’t good at all.

But then to his surprise, Aziraphale stays for the afternoon. He sits in the shaded corner of the crushing room and watches Crowley work, asking simple questions that keep Crowley focused. Once he’s processed all of the bins, and the four stainless steel vessels are all partially full, Aziraphale simply leads Crowley back to his own house.

They sit down on the couch, and Aziraphale drags Crowley’s head down into his lap, fingers already working their way into Crowley’s hair, a gentle scalp massage that clears his brain of every single coherent thought he’s ever had.

Crowley isn’t sure whether he sleeps or not, but by the time he gets up for dinner, he feels — renewed. Regenerated. It’s nice.

———

As much as the team starts drinking early in the day, evening harvest is when things really start to go wild.

Francis starts the fire. He wants to help, but he’s disabled, so Crowley always makes it his job to man the fire along with his service dog Max; he’d let Francis pick, if he ever wanted, but Francis hates the sun, the heat, the bugs, and the stickiness, not necessarily in that order. Thus, Crowley puts him in charge of the bonfire, every night, alongside the ingredients for smores and the hot dogs Inferior Anthony always brings for evening cooking.

Doesn’t matter that the tasting room’s still open, that the kitchen is open, that Newt and Brian are putting out particularly delicious sandwiches and soups. The entire crew would rather shove a hot dog on a stick and burn it in the bonfire, then eat it slathered with ketchup and relish from a goddamn squeeze bottle on a grocery bun. Sometimes Crowley just wants to cry at them a little, but hey, this is the tradition and it’s been working for him so far.

Old Ms. Rydia sits by the fire with Francis, most nights; sometimes Crowley will catch her hobbling down one of the rows, snipping grapes into a goddamn basket, but most of the time she and Francis sit a bit apart and provide commentary on the ‘children’. Crowley doesn’t really like being lumped in with the young people, but since Ms. R is like a hundred and seventy years old or something, he allows it. When did this become a community event, anyway? Yeah, so he sends out invitations to the usual crew, but that doesn’t make it a … Thing. (It absolutely makes it a Thing. Crowley’s aware of this.)

He and Aziraphale had wheeled out the spotlights, positioned at the start and end of every other lane, staggered so that there should be decent enough light that they can pick out the bugs and the bad fruit. Crowley’s generator is humming away in the background, a noisy, annoying, reassuring baseline for the chatter and gossip of the group.

He’s broken out the wine, because he isn’t exactly gonna pay them - fuckin’ hooligans - but he can provide a glass or two, for people helping him out. Half of them pay anyway, slipping Adam and Anathema cash when Crowley isn’t looking, because they’re all terrible. He’s drinking Apocalypse and Aziraphale is nursing a glass of Lydia and everyone still seems excited rather than exhausted so, hey, things are still moving along.

The group gets to work, splitting up into different teams this time, and Aziraphale grins as Pepper pulls him away to go work a row, Warlock securely gripped in her other hand. Crowley starts up the destemmer-crusher, every spotlight in the building on high, and makes sure everything’s cleaned up and moving nicely. He pulls samples from each of the tanks to make sure their compositions haven’t changed from the day’s heat. The building is full of the sweet-tart smell of the crushed grapes, alongside the metallic tang of the machinery running and what’s probably sweat from the team.

Crowley breathes it in, the cool of the night air and the scent of his soil, disturbed by so many footsteps. He grounds himself in it. Opens his eyes; his fields are full of people, snipping away at his grapes, bringing in the fruits of all his labor this year. All these years.

It shouldn’t feel different, but it does.

Anathema and Adam return from where they’ve been snarking with Old Ms. R and Francis. Anathema’s sparkling; there’s a flush riding her cheekbones, and her eyes are smiling, and she’s probably been into the Honey and Psalms already. Adam seems loose, relaxed, secure in a new way Crowley hasn’t seen much of. Settling into their new roles, maybe? Or it’s just the wine. Who knows.

Claire and Dicky Richard are the first to arrive, and Adam helps them get the bin settled into the lifter to dump it into the loading tray. “Ey, Dicky,” Crowley says, since Richard wasn’t there this morning. “About time you showed up.”

“I don’t get up that early,” Dicky Richard shoots back. “Ever.”

“Just here for the hot dogs,” Claire says, rolling their eyes.

The bin empties, the tray is full, and Crowley starts his usual search, rolling his fingers through the grapes, looking for stray leaves or sticks or grapes that don’t make the cut. This part is a soothing moment within the absolute insanity that is harvest: his hands on his own fruit, reading the year in the tenderness of the grapes, in their give under his hands. If he throws a few at Anathema, well, they’re bad grapes, and his aim is awful. Whatever.

The process goes on and on. Everyone’s still energetic - it’s only the first night - and the Chard really is at peak and the more they can get today, the better; the sugars have landed at just the right point, and Crowley’s ready to capture it. The bins come in, the groups chatters at each other, and Crowley works the destemmer and the crusher and the press; the bins come in, and Crowley measures his blends again so that he can send this batch into the right vessel. The bins come in, and then Aziraphale’s there, tugging him away.

“You need to eat,” Aziraphale says. His face is flushed, bright; his hands are sticky with grapes and Crowley has to stop himself from putting Aziraphale’s finger in his mouth, tasting the vineyard off of his skin. He _wants._ Aziraphale’s beautiful here, even in his terrible denims and those stupid sneakers. He wants to lick his yield off of Aziraphale’s palm.

He lets Aziraphale lead him over to the tables, where someone has at least brought out some of Brian’s famous paninis; Crowley will shoot himself before he eats a grocery store hot dog. He picks up half of a tomato and cheese on crispy white and gnaws on it idly as he looks around. It feels like he’s barely in his body; his brain is racing to keep track of all five hundred things that are happening around him. Heartbeat? What’s that. Charley and Bird Sam are eating the grapes again.

“Having fun, angel?” Crowley finally manages to focus, looking over at Aziraphale. That itself is grounding. Aziraphale’s nibbling on the other half of the tomato and cheese, watching him with an obvious fondness in his eyes.

“This is _delightful,”_ Aziraphale says. He’s beaming. “I didn’t realize you had such a helpful group of friends! They’re all so _lovely.”_

“They’re terrible bastards,” Crowley protests. “Truly awful feral people.”

“I did half a row with Pepper and Warlock,” Aziraphale continues, as if he hadn’t been interrupted. “And then another half of a row with - I think the Other Sam, and Martin?” He’s untied the bowtie and unbuttoned the first button of his shirt, which Crowley has somehow just noticed and now can’t take his eyes off of. Aziraphale undressing out in his vines! He feels _weak,_ like this will be a part of his stupid fantasies forever. “And then Madame Tracy caught me, such a lovely woman, and we just got to talking for a bit.”

Does Aziraphale realize how easily he’s slipped into Crowley’s world? Does he realize how well he fits here, as if he’s always been? The thought hits Crowley, then, the thing he’s absolutely truly been avoiding this entire time: in a week or so, Aziraphale will be gone. It hits him like a bullet to the back.

Crowley can’t help it, then, the way he reaches out for Aziraphale mid-sentence, folding his arms around him and dropping his forehead to Aziraphale’s shoulder.

“It’s alright, dear,” Aziraphale says, patting Crowley on the back. “I’ve been watching you. You must be exhausted already.”

It’s a good enough excuse, so Crowley lets it stand.

———

Crowley calls off the harvest around two AM. It doesn’t make sense to push everybody this early, and besides, he’s exhausted. He announces that there won’t be a dawn harvest - it would have to start in four hours, bloody hell - but dusk harvest starts the same time tomorrow. There’s some general cheering and a bit of booing, mostly from Adam, Charley, and Dicky Richard, who seem to have no sleep schedule whatsoever. Shitty Anthony is handing out hot dogs like they’re takeaway. Crowley just kicks them all out and focuses the remainder of his mental energy on cleaning out the destemmer-crusher and the press, running water through it until all of the traces of residue have gone.

He isn’t really aware of anything then until he starts dreaming. It’s just grapes: a river of Chardonnay, rolling in front of him, like they roll across the feeder tray but continuous, a never-ending stream past his hands. He’s trying to pick through and pull out the big stems and the bad ones, but they just keep coming, flowing like a river past him. They’re going to overload the destemmer and Crowley tries to stop it but it’s just coming and coming. The grapes start to darken, until it’s obvious that someone mixed his Chardonnay and his fucking old vine Zinfandel and Crowley starts to panic. He tries to pull his hands out of the grapes but they’re stuck, it’s like they’re underwater, he can’t pull them out and someone’s fucking up his two best wines, what a waste, he’s so fucked, he’s —

— in bed.

Crowley opens his eyes. Aziraphale’s there, his back to Crowley, his breathing deep and even. For a moment Crowley thinks he’s just thrown himself into another dream, but then it comes back to him: Aziraphale gently helping him clean up, turning off the spotlights and the generator, leading Crowley into his house. Getting him into pajamas, through the bathroom, tucking him into bed. He hadn’t remembered earlier because it had been so _nice_ to turn his brain off, let Aziraphale take care of him; it had all faded into a haze.

Crowley shifts over, wrapping his arm around Aziraphale’s broad chest, plastering himself to Aziraphale’s back. He tugs the sheet back over both of them and buries his face at the base of Aziraphale’s skull, breathing him in.

———

Aziraphale has to head back to his rental to pack and attend a video meeting with some FTA people, so Crowley lets him go, and grabs at the way his heart feels like it’s been wounded and shoves it into a box. He can’t think about that. Things will be fine; he’ll get through the harvest, and Aziraphale will figure his shit out, and they’ll be — fine.

Crowley heads out into the vines that afternoon. It’s hot and sticky - even the sundress he’s wearing feels like too much - and dragging the spotlights around is hard work, but they’ve cleared out a third of this Chard, so he needs to move them to the rows they haven’t harvested. By the time he’s done, he’s absolutely disgusting, but it’s set up for the evening. The cool shower he takes afterwards is beautiful. Somehow the lukewarm water in his face clears out a lot of the cobwebs from his nightmare. Crowley feels refreshed, and calmed, and ready for another good dusk harvest. He doesn’t even need a nap.

Folks start showing up around six. They won’t head to the vines until eight-ish, but it’s an event for a lot of them, and Crowley isn’t going to stop them from making it a party. They linger in the tasting room for a bit, and then head out to the picnic tables, where Old Ms. R is starting the fire up again. Crowley’s skin is still warm from the heat of 99 degrees earlier in the day, but the Russian River Valley tends to be a bit dramatic, dropping into the low 50s at night: hence the bonfire. The sun is near the horizon - it sets around half-seven these days - and a few folks have bought bottles from the bar to share out here, and Crowley squares his shoulders and relaxes into it.

Which, of course, is when Ligur and Hastur come around the corner, terrible smirks on their terrible faces.

God _damnit._ It _figures._ Crowley doesn’t want to do this in front of these strangers, this crew of helpers. Ugh, they haven’t even done anything yet, with The Them, can he send them home or is he going to have to sit through this shit again and again?

“Nice shoes, Crawly,” Hastur says.

“Barefoot at your own harvest,” Ligur continues. “That’s a violation, innit?”

“No shirt, no shoes, no service,” Hastur drawls, with a derogatory look at Crowley’s sundress.

Crowley rolls his eyes and tries to keep his composure. “We’re busy at the moment. Come back later.”

Ligur throws a pointed look at the crew, who are trying very hard to not look like they’re watching every single word. “Yeah, you look busy. Real busy.”

“Excuse me,” says a haughty voice, approaching from behind Crowley, and Crowley closes his eyes behind his sunglasses.

“Hello,” Aziraphale continues, planting himself right at Crowley’s side. “I don’t believe we’ve met. You may know me as A. Z. Fell. I’m here on behalf of FTA - the Food and Travel Adventures network conglomerate? Surely you’ve heard of them.”

Hastur and Ligur look at each other in a way that says they’ve absolutely heard of FTA. “Right,” Hastur says slowly. “And wot are you doin’ here, then?”

“That’s not necessarily your business,” says Aziraphale. God, Crowley has never heard him sound so… snooty. It’s like he’s channeling that Gabriel, but in his own bastard way. “But your business is, unfortunately. I take it you’re here for an inspection?”

“Uh,” says Ligur. “Yeah. Inspection. Lookin’ to shut it down.” The gall of it has Crowley fisting his hands at his sides. As if they can just come in here and…

Aziraphale tilts his head and the smile on his face isn’t at all friendly. “Sadly, the FTA law department prevents me from being involved in any sort of legal action, so I’ll have to report this. I’ll need to see your licenses.”

There’s a pause, as Ligur and Hastur look at each other again. Crowley’s frozen, halfway between horror and hysteria. What is Aziraphale _doing._ This will either be the funniest thing that’s ever happened to him or a disaster. He isn’t sure yet.

Hastur shrugs, then rummages around in the inner pocket of his worn corduroy jacket and presents something to Aziraphale, sneering.

“Oh.” Aziraphale delicately takes it. “Well, that’s a business card,” he says, as if talking to a child. “And a lovely one, but I’m afraid it isn’t a license.”

“Says right there,” Hastur replies, gesturing. “Albert Hastur, Winery Inspector.”

 _Albert?_ Crowley thinks, coming down even farther on the side of hysteria.

“Yes,” Aziraphale says slowly, and the condescension is dripping from his voice at this point. “Unfortunately, anyone can make a business card. I need to see your actual inspector’s license. I’ll have to submit the number to FTA. Liability thing,” he adds, breezily, as if he isn’t just bullshitting out of his glorious arse. “You understand, I’m sure.”

Ligur doesn’t look like he understands at all. He reaches into the back pocket of his dirty jeans and pulls out a wallet that’s seen far better days. He rummages a bit, then plucks something out and hands it to Aziraphale.

“Ah,” Aziraphale says, taking this one even more delicately. “That’s a driver’s license, you see. Not an inspector’s license.”

“You said license,” Ligur retorts, sounding a bit embarrassed. He grabs the thing and shoves it back into his wallet.

“My dear fellows.” Aziraphale folds his hands together and rests them on his stomach. “I’m afraid you’re going to have to return with your licenses and registration if you want to get on the property while I’m visiting. You see, the paperwork will be a _complete_ nightmare.” He rolls his eyes and he’s never sounded more Brit Snob in his life and Crowley thinks _that’s it, I’m in love with a bastard angel._

“Uh,” Hastur says. He looks over at Ligur. Ligur shrugs.

“Unless you don’t actually have licenses,” Crowley says, suddenly back to the conversation. “Which is another problem.”

“This isn’t over, Crawly,” Hastur snaps. “We’ll find something.”

“No, you won’t.” Crowley squares his shoulders again and looks at them over the rim of his sunglasses. “You’ve been told, now fuck off.”

“This is going right to the top!” Ligur yells.

Crowley shrugs. “Go ahead. Just fuck off, yeah?”

For a moment it seems like Hastur’s considering throwing a punch, but then Crowley feels someone approaching; Anathema’s come to stand beside him, with Pepper, who actually looks like she’s ready for a rumble. Adam’s over on Aziraphale’s other side. Well. Crowley didn’t intend to form a gang today, but apparently that’s what they’re doing.

“You’ll be hearing from us,” Hastur growls finally, and they turn and head back over to the parking lot.

Crowley waits until they’re out of hearing range and then says, somewhat weakly, “What the fuck, angel. What the fuck.”

“Well.” Aziraphale tugs his vest into place and straightens his bowtie. He looks incredibly pleased with himself. “I figured it was about time I used the clout of fame to my own advantage.” God, it’s a good look on him. Crowley could ravish him right now.

“How much of that was true?” he asks, instead, cause this isn’t the time or the place.

Aziraphale smiles mysteriously. “Some of it, actually,” he replies. “Not all. Does it matter?”

“No,” Crowley says happily. Jesus, he’s a disaster. “No, it doesn’t. That was beautiful, angel.”

“Glad to help, my dear.” The smile softens into something so affectionate Crowley chokes on it.

“Hold up,” Charley interrupts, having approached them while Crowley was distracted. “Are you actually A. Z. Fell?”

“Oh.” Aziraphale looks a little taken aback. “Call me Aziraphale, please.”

“A. Z. Fell. You’re actually here.” Martin’s joined the group. They all look a bit stunned.

Huh. Crowley didn’t realize the wine-and-book club would know Aziraphale’s blog; then again, wine and reading, it probably makes sense that some of them would be aware of it. It’s funny how he forgets, even now, that Aziraphale’s a big name in the wine world. He’s actual famous. It still throws Crowley, every time.

“We read nothing but your blog for a week,” Charley says, looking excited. They’re gesturing with their wine glass and Crowley knows some of it’s going on the ground.

“We had to try the cheesy wine,” Martin gushes. “And the bit about the shrimp. That was probably my favorite.”

“No,” says Charley, “the tomatoes.”

“The fucking tomatoes.” Martin groans happily and rolls their eyes. “I had forgotten.”

They’re both grinning. Aziraphale looks somewhat overwhelmed.

Crowley shrugs. He’s feeling too much right now, like he’s bursting at the seams.

———

They break from dusk harvest around midnight, this time. It’s going to be cool tomorrow (where cool is relative, as compared to 95 degrees F), and Crowley wants to have dawn harvest as well. Not everyone will come - people in general need more than five hours of sleep, he’s learnt - but he’ll have enough to empty out another few rows. The Chard is just so good at the moment, and he wants to capitalize on that.

The crew will eventually split up into two teams, dawn and dusk; the year always starts like this, though, with most everyone coming to dusk harvest, for the party as well as the grapes. Crowley doesn’t mind it. He doesn’t have the brains to care about it — not during harvest.

Aziraphale kisses him before following Warlock to their car, and Inferior Anthony hoots something as they walk by; Crowley’s blushing, and he flips the crew off as he heads back to his house.

Crowley is restless. The residual anxiety from Hastur and Ligur’s visit churns in his gut; he knows he’s done the right thing, finally kicking them off the property, but there’s _history_ there and it’s an instinctive reaction at this point. The harvest stress is starting to tighten up his shoulders, the way it does every year. And he can’t think about Aziraphale without thinking of the upcoming bit where Aziraphale’s going to _go home._

This isn’t his home. Crowley’s being ridiculous.

It’s just that Aziraphale _fits here_ — or at least, Crowley thinks he does. He hasn’t asked Aziraphale whether he feels the same way. But Aziraphale has slid into their lives - Warlock, too - and that sharp, needy part of Crowley wants to just ask him to _stay._

But he can’t, like, literally can’t. Not just shouldn’t, _can’t._ Aziraphale _does not live here._ He lives in Los Angeles. He’s going through a major life change. He needs to go home.

God, he’s quivering. There’s no way he’ll sleep.

So Crowley picks up the electric lantern and his messenger bag and heads out into the vines.

They’re almost through the Chardonnay that makes Honey and Psalms; Song of Solomon will probably be next. He walks the rows, snipping bunches as he does and putting them into plastic bags, scribbling with a Sharpie to label the row, place, and time. The air smells like harvest: there’s a tang the nights get, at the point where summer is tipping into fall, where the scent of leaves falling and decay and dried grass fill your nose. Or maybe that’s just Crowley, but there’s a _feeling_ to it, the understanding that summer has fallen, and autumn rules the air. He can smell the slight sweetness of the grapes, probably from the ones that have already burst. The ground is dry beneath his bare feet.

The Pinots are likely to be next, based on previous years, so Crowley heads there next. He breathes in the scent of his vines and tries to breathe out the anxious mess sitting in his gut. Logically he knows harvest will proceed as it has every year, and that his skills improve annually, but it’s that tightrope-sense where one bad thing could knock the rest of it down like very expensive dominoes.

The Pinot grapes smell darker, deeper, and he starts with the two acres of Lilith that’s likely to be the next target. Snip, bag, label, breathe. It’s calming, in a way; on the other hand it’s nearly two AM and dawn harvest will start in four hours and stress is exhausting.

He knows if Aziraphale had stayed he’d be in bed right now, sleeping — probably well-fucked and relaxed with it, too. But Aziraphale has a phone call in the morning, and Crowley can’t spend the night there with a dawn harvest coming up, so. It is what it is.

Oh, sure, he’ll be fine. He’s planning on diving into the harvest as hard as he does every year, because the craziness of it will distract him from not having Aziraphale around anymore. By the time that’s all over, Aziraphale should be settled into whatever new thing he’s doing with his career, and then they can… try making something work.

 _(It’ll work, it’ll work, it’ll work,_ rattles around his stupid fucking skull, whispers in his bones. He keeps having to repeat it, over and over, because otherwise he’s going to spontaneously combust in the middle of the fucking Petite Sirah.)

Once he’s done with Lilith he moves back to the crush building. Each bunch of grapes must be pulled from the stem, manually crushed, then filtered. It’s somewhat numbing work, and Crowley’s done this so many times he might actually take a brief nap while he’s doing it. There are eight jars of juice in front of him when he’s done, plastic bags with labels next to them, ready for testing.

Crowley stares at them for a while. This insomnia isn’t uncommon; he barely sleeps during harvest anyway, surviving on naps snatched throughout the day and night. That restless energy is still quivering in his fingertips. There’s no sleep on the schedule for him tonight. Sighing, he pulls his mobile out of his pocket, pulling up the spreadsheet he records the results in, and goes to test the sugars.

———

“Crowley,” says Aziraphale, partially down the row; Crowley has stopped at the end, eying the way this year’s vines have wrapped around the post. He isn’t sure he likes it, and the clippers in his hand are asking him whether or not he wants to correct the problem now. “Crowley, come look at this.”

There’s a bit of surprise in Aziraphale’s voice, and Crowley looks up from the bend - its days are numbered, now - and hurries to his side. Aziraphale is holding a bunch of grapes in his hand, and appears to be trying to prod one open.

“I was, well, snacking,” Aziraphale says, and he definitely sounds abashed. Crowley chuckles at it; of course his angel can’t keep anything out of his mouth. “But look, Crowley, there’s something odd about this grape.”

Crowley looks down into Aziraphale’s palm. The grape is split open, mush everywhere. “Angel, did you chew this and spit it out? Gross.”

“Oooh,” says Other Sam, suddenly there. “Lemme see.”

“Budge up,” says Claire.

Aziraphale’s shaking his head, prodding at the mush. “No, Crowley, _look._ There’s …a smaller grape _inside_ this grape.”

“Angel,” Crowley says doubtfully, frowning, “I don’t think that’s—”

Aziraphale pushes one into his mouth. “Chew carefully,” he orders.

Crowley does. He bites into the grape, tasting that first sweet-tart burst of flavor; he rolls it around a bit on his tongue. He’s about to chew it and swallow when he feels it — a tiny little globe of flesh, at the center of the grape, a different sort of give.

Something must show on his face. “A- _ha,_ ” Aziraphale says, sounding smugly satisfied.

The clamor that follows is a bit ridiculous, as everyone needs to try one of these grapes. Crowley rolls his eyes; it’s just a double germination, a lucky fruit that set twice. He guesses it’s interesting, for people who haven’t seen grapes growing in every single possible configuration and shape possible.

“Your grapes are pregnant,” Martin tells Aziraphale very seriously.

“Then why are we eating the grape babies?” Worst Anthony looks down at the few they have in their palm, shrugs, and shoves them into their mouth.

Shoes snorts. “Grape babies. Grabies.”

“Gimme one,” says Dicky Richard, approaching late. “I want to eat a graby.”

“I hate this,” Crowley announces, but no one’s listening to him anymore.

———

A few days later, Crowley is shoved out the door by Anathema and ordered to go home to shower. Crowley feels a bit like a zombie with anxiety, and he can’t think of a good argument, so he does. He takes possibly the longest shower he’s ever taken in his life, and then plods downstairs in nothing but boxers, thinking he’ll have a glass of wine and maybe some toast. Watch some Chopped or something, fall asleep in front of it, be up in time for dusk harvest. It makes sense.

But Aziraphale’s there when Crowley walks into the kitchen, and he freezes, dumbly stunned.

“Hello, darling.” Aziraphale’s smile reaches his eyes, crinkling, a hint of amusement at Crowley’s truly compromised state.

He’s suddenly aware that he’s only wearing boxers and he flushes, which will probably ugly blotch its way down his _completely naked chest._ “Angel?”

“Anathema called me,” Aziraphale says, unapologetic. “She seems to think you need an evening off, so I’m here to get you dinner and a drink.”

The noises that fall from Crowley’s mouth sure aren’t words. “Pants,” he says finally. “Let me get pants.”

Aziraphale gives him an appreciative look that rakes over his skin down to his toes and back up. “I’m certainly enjoying the view,” he says, _the fucking tease,_ “but you do what makes you feel comfortable.”

“Um,” Crowley says. It’s hitting him that Aziraphale’s here, in his kitchen, and what if this is the last time he’s in Crowley’s kitchen for a while? What if this is the last time he’s in Crowley’s _house?_ He wants to say — something. Anything. He can’t catch the words he wants in his mouth. Yes, they have talked every day; yes, they’ve been spending the time they can together even with the harvest and Aziraphale’s sudden urgent demand. But it hasn’t quite caught in his throat, yet, not the way it has right now, something welling up inside him that, fuck, he is _not_ going to _cry_ while he’s _basically naked._ That’s not happening.

“Oh,” Aziraphale says softly, and then he has his arms around Crowley; Crowley wraps his own around Aziraphale, pressing his palms into that sturdy back. He rests his chin on Aziraphale’s shoulder. “It’s alright, my dear.”

It isn’t, but Crowley isn’t going to say that. Not yet. Whatever days they have left, he wants them to be good ones. With a deep shuddering breath he swallows all of it. Sure, it’ll give him indigestion eventually, but that’s a problem future Crowley can solve. For now, he has Aziraphale.

“Alright,” he says, standing straight. “What’s the plan? You’re not cooking, are you, angel?”

Aziraphale giggles a bit. His face is still so open and warm, so adoring, and this is how Crowley wants to remember these last days. “Of course not. Don’t be _silly._ There’s takeout from that lovely Thai place in Santa Rosa on its way. We’re going to open a bottle of your Zinfandel and watch that ridiculous cooking show you like, have dinner, consider another bottle of wine. And then, dear boy, I’m going to take you to bed.”

There’s _heat_ in that last bit, and Crowley feels it settle low in his spine, simmering with anticipation.

“Dusk harvest,” he says, weakly.

“Not at all.” Aziraphale twinkles with certainty. “Anathema is going to be in charge. You are taking the evening off.”

And here, faced with Aziraphale’s delight, and the feeling of his heart slowly tearing open, Crowley can’t even fathom walking away from this to go back out into his vines.

“Fine,” he drawls, making sure he sounds absolutely put out, because otherwise he’s going to cry.

They end up eating their delivery on the couch - Crowley in pajama pants, Aziraphale with his waistcoat off and sleeves rolled up - and watch Crowley’s favorite episodes of Chopped After Hours (he likes when Ted is so obviously drunk). Crowley ends up curled into Aziraphale’s side, both of their hands wandering over each other, heated but not urgent. Crowley wants to fill his palms with the sense of Aziraphale until it’s burnt in, so he doesn’t fucking forget a single moment of how this feels.

The evening ends with Crowley stretched out in bed, Aziraphale riding him with slow sure certainty; their cheeks pressed together, tongues and teeth at each other’s shoulders. Aziraphale holds him down with his entire self, taking control easily, and Crowley lets him. His breath catches as his hips piston up; the noises Aziraphale is making are absurd, too sensual to actually exist. Aziraphale drags it out so long that Crowley thinks he might actually die when he comes. Instead, he sinks into sleep, curled awkwardly into Aziraphale’s bicep, an arm flung across his stomach.

———

They’ve finished the Honey Chard and are on their way to the Song of Solomon Chard for its first dusk harvest. Aziraphale and Warlock have some early, and Crowley happily assigns Warlock and the Them to dragging out the spotlights. Anathema and Newt are inside at the tasting bar; they’re going home early, when Adam and Pepper finish helping to set up and head back inside. He has Martin, Worse Anthony, and Shoes dragging out the bins, while Claire, the Sams, and Martin are setting up on the picnic tables. Tracy is over with Old Ms. R and Charley, Shadwell’s off with Dicky Richard looking at the back door of the crush building, and Francis and Max are coming down the path, carrying a few grocery bags that probably just contain twizzlers and cheese popcorn. A few of them will trade off with Patrick and AJ and JJ and Shady Shen around ten PM, so that they can come back for dawn harvest.

And Aziraphale’s holding his hand, which makes him want to scream for a lot of reasons.

Days; he is _not thinking about it._

Shit, Charley’s in the bin again. Bird Sam is throwing grapes at them, Other Sam is taking pictures; Dicky Richard and Martin appear to be racing Claire and Shoes around the building somehow? Fuck, this is chaos, and Aziraphale is _holding his hand._ Like, in _public._

At this point the crew knows what to do so rather than delivering the real lecture Crowley just yells at them all for five minutes about how terrible they are. He’s fairly sure they don’t listen to him anyway, but it’s like yelling at the vines: it makes him feel better. Eventually they pair off and claim their rows and actually get to work, the fucking ingrates. Francis brought actual sausages this time but they still don’t have any better way to cook them and Crowley’s not dragging his own grill out into the goddamn vines, so it’ll still be skewers and sticks. Sigh.

Song of Solomon requires slower destemming and slower crushing, to make sure he can get every last drop of juice out, so he’ll probably be up late processing the bins once everyone is gone. Or he’ll have to get up early to do them while it’s still cool out. Another late night is obviously just what he needs. Maybe Aziraphale will stay? No, Aziraphale has to _pack._ For all the fuck’s sake in heaven.

Crowley wants a moment where time can just — _stop_ for a second. God, he wanted Aziraphale here for the harvest - to be a part of the harvest, to _see_ the actual fruits of Crowley’s labor - and yet now all he wants to do is tug Aziraphale into his bed until a half hour before they need to _leave._ It’s too much. It’s going to be too much.

But again, future Crowley will have plenty of time to deal with that. Present Crowley needs to not break down; he needs to enjoy this moment, and every single moment, while he’s here.

So this time he thinks, _fuck the crushing, I’ll do that later,_ and he and Aziraphale take a bin and head down to the far end of a lane to start harvesting.

Crowley hasn’t snipped his own grapes in years, except for the two areas of old vines that he’s so protective over. It’s actually quite satisfying. He chatters back and forth with Aziraphale, points out the bits of grapes that should be thrown out, flirts a bit — pressing full grapes to Aziraphale’s mouth, occasionally aiming one at his hair when his back’s turned. Aziraphale in turn makes good progress, talking to both Crowley and Madame Tracy, who’s in the next row over.

Crowley watches Aziraphale under the terrible artificial spotlight. He’s wearing awful jeans and more awful shoes, and a powder blue polo stretched pleasantly across his torso and belly. He should look awful, and he does, but _fuck_ he’s stupid beautiful.

He’ll have this to remember, too, through the haze of harvest when it really kicks in and they’re doing multiple fields at once and he starts to feel like he’s just constantly drowning. He’ll have this memory: Aziraphale’s hands on his grapes, his smile in the vines, his lips on Crowley’s out on his land.

It puts Crowley in a good mood so that when he calls off the harvest around one he sticks around. He actually lets Old Ms. R feed him a hotdog. Aziraphale eats three. They sip at glasses of Lydia and watch the book club crew play the most haphazard game of hide-and-seek tag Crowley’s ever seen. It feels good, this: he’s exhausted but in that good way, the one that says you were productive. Aziraphale’s beside him, quiet and there, and Franklin’s telling some story about his crazy father and Old Ms. R looks like she’s had three bottles already; she’s cackling like a witch.

Harvest isn’t all bad, Crowley thinks.

———

And then it hits him.

It’s round nine at night, and he’s on his way back from the tasting room - dusk harvest having been called off for the night, since it’s weirdly muggy out - and he opens the door to his house and it hits him like someone just shot a car into his sternum.

Less than a week, and Aziraphale’s back in LA.

Even with Madame Tracy’s assistance, even with what Warlock had wrestled out of FTA, it’s closing in. There’s so much going on with the contract negotiation that Aziraphale just can’t stay here for the entire time; it isn’t about the house, it isn’t about the money — it’s about the fact that FTA is based in Los Angeles, and he has to be there to sort out this mess.

It’s just time. Nothing they can do; nothing left, except the better part of a week and the bits of time they can spend with each other. Between the harvest and managing the crew and the measurements and tracking and all the different wines he has to harvest for, and Aziraphale’s constant meetings and phone calls and packing up a place he’d spread out into over six months — their time is already limited. That’s fine. The analytical part of Crowley’s brain has thought this through and knows what’s happening.

The other part of Crowley - that part that’s just starting to be scraped raw and open - has him in the car almost at the villa before he even realizes he’s driving.

The Bentley tucks itself in behind their terrible rental and Crowley skids across the gravel as that space in him finally tears open and all of his feelings flood into the roof of his mouth.

Aziraphale answers the door. He’s wearing that dumb tartan housecoat over what looks like an undershirt and his khakis, and slippers, and his hair is fluffy like he’s been running his hands through it. “Crowley?” His face is concerned, so dear, and Crowley just freezes looking at it. Aziraphale looks like he’s turned in for the evening. The housecoat isn’t flattering at all, his face is flushed like he’s drinking, and Crowley loves him so much it feels like he might actually break with it.

“I’m scared,” he says to Aziraphale, before anything else can happen. Aziraphale stops, holding the door open, and isn’t this the cliche of all cliches, showing up at his fucking doorstep at night. Where are his goddamn fairy lights. But this isn’t a movie; they aren’t guaranteed any kind of ending. This is just Crowley, torn open and babbling.

Aziraphale opens his mouth but Crowley rushes on, because the floodgates have been broken down and swallowed, and he doesn’t know what else to do. “I’m scared, okay? Look, I know I’m not - hng - easy, and I’m not, y’know, special, and I’m a goddamned mess fucked sixteen ways to Sunday, and that means I’m scared. You’re heading back to LA, and you’re going to find something that’s perfect for you there - how can you not, you - you angel - and then,” and he takes a deep ragged shuddering breath because he’s finally falling apart and even if it feels like shit he can at least let go the worry that he _would._ The worry is too late; this is his landslide.

“And we’ll talk, for a while, and maybe see each other once, or twice, but - I’m so much work - it’s going to be different, and I’m scared because you’re going to be far away from me and I’ve gotten used to you _here.”_

Aziraphale is silent, his mouth open in the smallest of _O_ s, hands frozen in place. It’s okay, though, because Crowley’s like a fucking garden hose, he’s just going to spit this all out until it lies at Aziraphale’s feet and he - most likely - turns off the flow of water.

“I don’t know how to do this,” Crowley says, and it’s so _plaintive_ as it comes out that he wants to shove sunglasses over his sunglasses and also die. His mouth is pouring out words before they really register to the rest of his brain. “I don’t know how to do this and there are so many things I want to say and ask you but I don’t want to go too fast and I don’t want to be _stupid_ and I just, angel, fuck.”

It trickles off as strongly as it started and Crowley’s left there, standing outside the door like this is a goddamn romcom movie, and he feels like he’s been torn down to the base of his spine and all his organs are splayed out and vulnerable. A lovely image. This will definitely make Aziraphale feel good about their entire situation! He is winning at relationships! He wants to go get in the Bentley and spin out until it’s _four years from now_.

Aziraphale — blinks. Crowley has stalled like a car in the middle of the road and he just stands there staring, knowing that he needs to do something that isn’t _what he’s doing,_ and then Aziraphale shakes all over as if he’s had a sudden realization and his hands are on Crowley’s shoulder and elbow and wrist, drawing him inside.

Crowley feels a bit dizzy. Impulse and emotion have flooded his senses, to the point where he can barely remember how he _got_ here, but the thing is — he trusts Aziraphale, and he’s here to tell Aziraphale something, and all his bones are stacked and aligned to Aziraphale as north. The sharper, more urgent parts of him fold in and he lets Aziraphale lead him into the bedroom suite, following until he’s set down on a couch he knows.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says. There are notes in his voice that are beyond the normal spectrum. Crowley hears love and regret and caution and sympathy. “Breathe. Come back to me.”

Crowley doesn’t realize how spiky and uneasy he feels until he’s sitting on Aziraphale’s couch, breathing in air that has pressed against him, atoms that have brushed that skin. How will he relax once Aziraphale is gone? Will he know how to do so, without this touchstone?

“Darling,” Aziraphale starts. His voice is oddly hushed, as if it’s choked in his throat, too thick to make real words. Crowley knows the feeling. “I don’t know how to do this either, my dear. Do you think I know something you don’t? Do you think I have any idea what’s going to happen?” He reaches out for Crowley’s hands and his grip is tight. “You aren’t the only one who’s scared, my dear.”

“Pfft,” Crowley says, and then, “Ngh. It. ‘S not. Fnagmmn.” This isn’t helpful at all so he takes a deep breath and tries to smash his noises into words. “Angel, you’ve got so much else going on, you shouldn’t be spending your time worrying about me, you’ve got your shit to sort out right now.” He immediately regrets coming over. He immediately regrets _so much._

“Crowley.” It’s just his name in Aziraphale’s mouth, but it draws his attention, focusing him like a laser on Aziraphale’s face.

“Crowley, darling, you’re stressed and not sleeping right now,” Aziraphale tells him gently. “You’re just starting your harvest, you’re managing your crew and your vines and all of it on an incredibly demanding schedule. Please do _not_ pretend you don’t have a lot going on right now, either.”

Crowley pulls his hands back, but it’s just to pull off his sunglasses and rub his hands over his face. Fuck, he’s such a disaster, this was so dumb. “Yeah, I, uh. Probably just need sleep. Look, I’ll get out of your hair, I’m sorry…”

“You’ll do no such thing,” Aziraphale says, standing up. “Come with me.”

How is Aziraphale so — confident, maybe, or sure of things, at least at this moment? Crowley feels like a tangle of wires and distress. Aziraphale calmly leads him into the bedroom, takes a moment to rest his hands on Crowley’s shoulders, and then starts unbuttoning his shirt.

“You need to rest,” he says, like it’s an order. “I was just getting into bed myself; I’ve got a nice book I want to finish so I don’t have to steal it from Madame Tracy’s library. You just tuck yourself in over here, and I’ll watch over you.”

Crowley sags with it. Something releases and he’s just — the frenetic energy is gone, and it just becomes exhaustion. Maybe it was that all along. It isn’t like he really knows how to read his own brain? It’s written in, like, Russian. Or hieroglyphics. Space language. Earth to Crowley, what the hell is wrong with you.

He strips down to his boxers and climbs into the bed. Aziraphale is settling in against a pile of pillows, book in hand, bedside light on. And something in the moment strikes Crowley, the peal of a bell, and he looks up at Aziraphale from his pillow and says, “Move in with me.”

Aziraphale blinks. Looks down.

“Not now,” Crowley says. “Not even soon. I just — It’s, uh. I wanted to say it. It’s open. If you ever, you know. Want to.”

“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale says, and he reaches down to clasp at Crowley’s hand. “Thank you.”

It isn’t an answer, but Crowley finds he doesn’t actually need one. Not yet. There’s probably no possible world where things will work out for them like that, but he likes knowing that he made the offer. There’s something comforting in having said it out loud; it calms the tearing feeling in his chest, leaving just a quiet weariness.

———

Crowley isn’t thinking about it.

“Oi, Sam!” he yells. They both turn to look at him. “Bird Sam! You can pick off the bad ones! Don’t throw the whole bunch away!”

Their goodbye had been short. Why drag it out? Poignant: that’s the word that sticks in his head. And now Aziraphale’s gone.

“Shoes, holy shit, stop overfilling the bins! The hoist can’t — see? And now Anathema’s got grapes down her blouse. Fucking christ.”

The villa’s empty. Crowley drove past it, just once, to get it to sink in.

“Worst Anthony, you are the _worst_ Anthony. Can you please stop eating hot dogs and get back to _picking._ This is not a _party._ ”

It is a party, of sorts. It is every year, every night, every dusk harvest. Crowley’s invitation cards nearly say so; his setup definitely does. The fire’s going and the spotlights are bright over Adam and Eve’s Zinfandel and the tannins are _perfect_ at the moment and Crowley wants to get the entire acre-and-a-half harvested _tonight._ Everybody’s on deck; even The Them are out in the rows with shears. Every single bin is in use.

“Martin! Claire! You’re missing bunches, stop blabbering your mouths and focus!”

“We are not,” Claire yells back, and it’s true, but Crowley needs — this. He’s spent spring and summer yelling at the vines; it’s nice to have actual people to scream at, for once. He’s been trying to get Anathema to try it - she has a great shriek when she’s really angry - but she’d said something about the moon in Virgo or whatever and went back to working the crusher.

The villa’s empty. There’s no one in the bedroom. All hands are on deck, because Aziraphale and Warlock are back in Los Angeles.

“Dicky _fucking_ Richard if you eat another grape so help me, I will string you up from the spotlight with your own shoelaces!”

Other Sam just throws him a grin and yells, “Bold of you to assume they can tie a shoe!”

“Don’t make fun of my velcro,” Dicky Richard replies.

“You’re all terrible!” Crowley can’t watch this shit anymore. He heads back into the building. He’d pulled samples from three of the blend tanks a while ago; they should be done running. He’s worried about the pH in one of the tanks, which is higher than the others; solids is the same, and acids are close enough, so why in the world is it running high? He doesn’t _like this._ They can blend it down, of course, but he wants to know what’s happening.

“Charley, _if I see you in a bin again,”_ he hollers, not even having to turn around and look; he can hear the sound of it.

Martin yells back, “He’s in the bin,” and Crowley wheels around, shears in his hand, wondering whether his grin looks amused or manic.

He’s not thinking about it. He has a harvest to focus on now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HIT ME UP: [tumblr](https://sevdrag.tumblr.com/) | [discord / support me](https://seventhe.dreamwidth.org/435490.html) | [art etc](https://https//www.instagram.com/sevdrag/)


	20. Root Flush

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow, this is it, y'all; the last real chapter in Old Vines. I don't even know what to do with myself.

Aziraphale is home.

A lot of it is a relief, after six months of being — _away._ These are his walls and his rooms, his things and his memories; this is his _home,_ this is where he is _safe._ There’s an overbearing sense of relief to look at the bookshelves and see only titles he’s chosen: books that are friends, well-known and infinitely comforting. Madame Tracy’s eclectic shelves probably weren’t entirely her doing, not with the number of people who normally went through a lovely rental home like that, and Aziraphale had certainly taken his time to read the most interesting looking ones, but — these texts are _his._

Everything in this flat has been marked with his fingerprints. He’s embedded here. His footprints are familiar to the carpet, and his hands are recognized on faucets and doorknobs. This has been his home, and to someone like Aziraphale, a home is a center; this is the source of all of his serenity, the light at the center of his heart. His home knows him, and he knows it back.

He leaves his suitcases in the entry way and moves into it, slowly, trying to let his mind process before he has to start thinking about anything else. Here is his sitting room, or living room, depending on which sounds better any given day. Only one wall here is lined with bookshelves and books. There’s a comfortable couch and a loveseat and two matched chairs, placed at the perfect angle to contribute to a group discussion. Aziraphale reaches out to touch the fabric on the back of one of them. He’d paid to design the chairs specifically, had chosen the fabric and the wood and the studs together, having selected the shape while visiting the store. He’d thought them masterpieces, at the time: a successful combination of aesthetic and physical comfort, a place he’d always want to sit. The fabric is soft _and_ durable, and the pattern is timeless.

Beyond this entry room is the hallway that splits his bedroom, study and office, and the kitchen and dining areas. It’s almost unfamiliar, after so many weeks adjusting to the larger space of the villa’s first floor. The kitchen is nice, adequate for his cooking needs, and what passes as a dining room in this flat is an open area next to the kitchen where he can fit a slender table for four. There’s no separate kitchen nook, no dining table for fourteen; it is, simultaneously, comforting and disconcerting. This is _his_ space, the kitchen where he’s tried and failed multiple times to make a decent curry, where he can boil an egg and make a cuppa and can usually make rice, if the ricemaker decides to cooperate. It’s so much smaller than Madame Tracy’s rental kitchen, and so much more reasonable. No fancy pod-based coffee-maker, where Crowley can stumble and fumble until he breathes caffeine in and becomes a human being again.

Aziraphale’s study and professional office is technically his second bedroom, but — no one like him is going to need a place for guests to stay in his own home, and he does need a place of his own to work on his articles and his blog. The study is _lined_ in bookshelves. They’re all mismatched, a collection of different woods and stains and designs that Aziraphale had picked up at a number of estate sales and small auctions in his time here. He _likes_ that they technically all _go_ with each other, but don’t necessarily _match._ The different styles complement each other, even in the limited space of his study. The only wall space allowed is the bit around the window, because Aziraphale’s working desk sits there, with the light streaming in from behind him, over his shoulders. This is, admittedly, where most of his time had been spent, before.

It feels familiar, in an odd way that settles inside Aziraphale; he’d felt so at home on this trip that it makes him breathe a strange little sigh to come back into this space. He works his way behind the desk and sits in his chair, rests his hands on his keyboard. This, at least, feels familiar.

All the post-it notes are still on the monitor of his desktop: little reminders for his articles that make his heart sink as he reads them. _Keep your sentences short!_ And _no more than three semicolons per article!_ right next to _more exclamation points, old chap!_ All things Gabriel had said at some point, snippets of guidance from conversations and emails that Aziraphale had written up on these bright colors of paper and hung in his own face.

And sitting here feels different, now, because he recognizes these for what they were, what they are: what they have been to him. He cringes a bit looking at them; old habits die hard, but he finds that core inside of him, the thing he’d built up over the last six months, and breathes it out. _There will be no more of that,_ Aziraphale thinks.

He reaches out and tugs off the one that says _Three compliments for every criticism!_ , and looks down at it. Gabriel’s rules, Sandalphon’s suggestions — he’s free now. And then he’s tearing them all off in a frenzy, throwing them away from himself until they’re crumpled and scattered over the floor of the study like little wrinkled flowers. He’s breathing far too hard for a gesture so small.

This transition will not be easy, Aziraphale realizes. He covers his face with his hands and tries not to sob.

———

Warlock calls him three days later. Aziraphale spends those three days unpacking very slowly, because nearly every item of clothing he takes out of the case has memories of Crowley attached to it, and moving through those reminders makes it a slow process. The blue waistcoat he was wearing the day Crowley splashed gin on him, and he’d tugged it off, laughing; the plaid collared shirt he’d worn the night they’d gone out for shrimp and he’d spilled the cocktail sauce down his front. The ridiculous jeans he’d worn out in the vineyard, well-aware they were terribly unflattering, but not caring with Crowley’s eyes on him over their row of grapes.

He misses Crowley in ways he knew he would, and in ways he was unprepared for. Occasionally a memory will come back so intensely that Aziraphale comes back to himself shuddering in the middle of his bedroom, skin covered with goosebumps. When he pulls out the shirt he’d worn the night they first made love and remembers Crowley’s deft fingers taking it off of him, Aziraphale has to sit down.

Thinking about Crowley echoes oddly here, in this space that is so definitively his and yet — not as definitive anymore. There’s a part of him that _became_ Crowley’s, or a part of Crowley that became _his_ \- or both; Aziraphale isn’t sure it matters - and that part is absent: missing, asleep in hibernation. Crowley had told him about the next steps, the way they’ll let the leaves fall and fertilize the soil along each row of vines to make up for the nutrients they stole when harvesting all the grapes. Root flush, he calls it: the period in winter where the vines look like they’re sleeping dead, but actually all of their growth happens underground, roots spreading like mad in the winter chill so that they’re ready to feed nutrients into the next budburst.

Aziraphale’s aware that he’s been thinking of them as a metaphor for some time - he does, in fact read his own writing - but this also seems apt. It isn’t exactly cold in Los Angeles, but that piece of him that’s so intertwined with Crowley and his hectic life feels dormant. Aziraphale can only hope that they're both sending out roots, taking stock of what available earth they can find around them, anchoring themselves in place and, hopefully, to each other.

Aziraphale's fears tend to croon to him sometimes, in the dark of night when he's curled up in his bed - _his actual bed_ \- and he’s already tired and half-asleep and it’s easier for him to imagine that Crowley - gorgeous, stunning, breathtakingly witty Crowley - will lose interest as he moves his winery into its all-important next phase.

During the days, when they talk and text, it seems clear that Crowley’s still there, but the nights aren’t easy. Then again, he’s only been home for three bloody days; he could still be in culture shock, for heaven’s sake.

Anyway, Warlock calls him three days later.

———

“I’ve banged out most of it,” Warlock says, “and I think you’re gonna be pleased with where we’ve ended up.”

They’re meeting in Warlock’s office. Warlock has a lovely flat in a very different area of town than Aziraphale; it’s trendy, modern in a way that still seems to announce Warlock has money, edgy but not rough. His office is a little corner room off of his greatroom, where floor-to-ceiling windows bring in sunlight, bright and beautiful. Since Warlock’s entire job is taking care of Aziraphale’s business, the office is as familiar to Aziraphale as his own. He’s spent plenty of time here.

Warlock is drinking coffee as if he’s parched for it, and his hair’s still wet, dampening the collar of his t-shirt. Aziraphale brought scones, and they’re picking at them idly as Warlock gets all of the information pulled up. He has an impressive computer setup, Aziraphale thinks: dual monitors, both touchscreens, and a keyboard that lights up in whatever color he likes best.

“There are a couple options, but I think this is the one you’re going to like best,” Warlock begins, turning one of the screens so that they can both see and grabbing his interesting-looking mouse (it appears to have at least six buttons on it that Aziraphale’s doesn’t, growing like warts, and it’s also gleaming in a bright clear blue) to direct them. “I think our best move is to position you as a _contractor._ ”

Aziraphale hums and chews on a piece of his raspberry scone. “And how does that differ?”

“Right now, you’re an employee,” Warlock tells him. “As an employee you’re contained entirely within FTA. You have to follow their rules, meet their expectations, and since California is an at-will employment state, they can fire you at any time for any reason.” He grins, a bit wickedly. “Please note that they usually don’t, because of lawyers and agents like me, who like to get in fights about unfair termination, but — technically, those are the facts.”

Aziraphale takes another bite. There’s no way he’ll let FTA fire him; he’ll quit before that happens.

“As a contractor, you’re technically self-employed. You offer your services to FTA, but the contract’s much more on your terms than theirs. You can control your own blog in your own space, and we’ll contract with FTA for certain projects, in which you’ll have a lot more say than you do now.”

Aziraphale glances up. Warlock is smiling at him, really smiling, and Aziraphale thinks: _Warlock has grown as well. His own roots are flushing outward._

“It solves the problem of your blog; we threaten to take it back, and if they still want it on their website, we get to set new rules about it. The book then becomes a joint adventure between us, as well as any additional books, travel options, or other projects.”

Aziraphale sips at his tea and thinks. His first take is that it’s too good to be true, and there has to be a catch somewhere, because it’s nearly everything he wants: enough freedom to be himself, to have it be _his_ words people are reading, but with enough of a connection with other media institutions that opportunities may present themselves. He isn’t exactly ready to go back to writing a blog in his own little corner; he wants to keep the good parts of this business relationship, to see where his talent can take him with some of FTA’s support. He just wants those pieces of _himself_ back, first.

When he looks up again, Warlock’s grinning.

“You like it,” he says. “You really like it. I can tell.”

Aziraphale huffs. “I’ve said nothing, dear boy,” he says, primly, and Warlock’s grin grows.

“You do,” Warlock tells him. “And you’re easier to read, now that you don’t feel like you have to hide every single thought behind that awful neutral face of yours.”

“Excuse _you,”_ says Aziraphale, somewhat extravagantly offended.

“It was like you were drinking sour milk but were too polite to tell anyone,” Warlock informs him. “All the time.”

“Well,” Aziraphale continues, as if he hadn’t heard that, “you are right, you ridiculous man. I do like it. Are you sure that it’s... a possibility?”

Warlock’s grin goes crooked, and he says, almost quietly, “I wish I’d thought of it years ago, Az.”

Aziraphale smiles at that and reaches out to pat Warlock’s hand. “My dear boy,” he says, “I’d be nowhere without you. Don’t blame yourself. I’m the one who was... hiding.”

Warlock shrugs. “You were good at it,” he says, frankly. “I’ve spent a lot of time trying to figure out what you actually want, because I thought I knew you well enough to assume that what you wanted _wasn’t_ to bow to corporate standards. But it’s hard to be sure, when your boss is so...”

“When your boss is lying to himself,” Aziraphale says, softly.

And there, it’s out, between them. Aziraphale doesn’t think they need any kind of apology, nor any kind of heart-to-heart; he and Warlock have always understood each other, on some level. They wouldn’t have been able to work together for so long, otherwise. But Aziraphale has to say something. It has to be acknowledged between them, in order for them to move on.

“‘S alright,” Warlock says, his shrug so casual it looks like a Crowley move. “Got it now. Admit you like it and let’s move on to details.”

———

“I’m meeting with Gabriel tomorrow,” Aziraphale tells Crowley.

They call at random times, because Aziraphale’s still trying to take care of all his business here, and Crowley’s still tied up in dawn and dusk harvest, the rest of his days full of the testing and crushing and barreling of all of his wines, all of his vines. Today Aziraphale’s caught him around 4 PM, a cheerful chat before Crowley heads out to gather and feed his crew and get them all focused in the right direction.

He can hear Crowley snort over the phone. “I’m sure that’ll be a good time.”

“Honestly,” Aziraphale says, “I’m over most of the anger. I think. We should be able to have a clean, calm conversation without so much stress. And Warlock will be there.”

“I’m not sure you should,” Crowley says. “Make Warlock put it in your contract that you have earned fifteen minutes of screaming at Gabriel while he’s gagged.”

Aziraphale giggles. “Warlock would file for a punch in the face, I feel.”

“Good,” Crowley says, urgent. “Save one for me, angel.”

Crowley’s voice over mobile is — strange. It has all of the notes in it that Aziraphale finds familiar, but they’re muted through the electronics of it; a spectrum that he’s used to, that he knows and wants, with the amplitude turned way down. It isn’t as fully-colored as Aziraphale expects, and it throws him, this filter of mobile distance between them.

God, he _misses_ Crowley.

“How’s the harvest?”

Crowley’s exhausted sigh is a faint noise through the phone. Aziraphale can remember it in full color; he wants to reach out and touch it on Crowley’s mouth. “Chards are done. Syrah is done. Almost done with the Zins now, really, only a bit to go. It’s all mostly pressed and in the tanks. Mostly.” The poor dear; he sounds like he hasn’t slept in days. Aziraphale remembers the first few days of harvest; remembers taking a hazy, blurry Crowley to bed, tucking himself around his exhausted limbs.

“Make sure you’re taking care of yourself,” he tells Crowley, and is rewarded with a lively snort.

“Rather you were taking care of me,” Crowley says, and then — “Shit. I’m sorry.”

A wave of melancholy hits Aziraphale, his chest clenching like his heart’s in a vice. “No, don’t be,” he says, rather shakily. “I’d — I’d be there if I — if it...” He trails off, feeling the sting of tears in his eyes. This is _ridiculous;_ they both know this is necessary.

But necessary doesn’t mean he has to like it.

“I know,” Crowley says, sounding oddly stiff, as if he’s trying not to let anything out in his voice.

“I’d tuck you right into bed if I could,” Aziraphale says. His voice is slightly more stable this time, although he’s trying for encouraging. “I’m sure Anathema can take care of it for a night.”

“Ha,” says Crowley. “Anathema’s off for the night after staying awake for thirty-seven hours getting the crew lined up on the Pinots. She was speaking in tongues, angel.”

“Just,” Aziraphale starts, a bit self-conscious. “Pretend I’m there, darling. Get some sleep.”

Crowley makes one of his stunned noises for a while, and then says, finally, “I always pretend you’re here, angel. Goodnight.”

Aziraphale, stunned by this vulnerable admission, takes a good long moment to end the call.

———

Aziraphale’s heart beats a little crooked as he sees Gabriel and Michael sitting at the far side of the table, and he pauses just a moment too long before fully entering the room and taking a seat. He shouldn’t feel this nervous anymore; he doesn’t have to conform to their expectations anymore. He thinks of Crowley’s insistence that Gabriel get punched - he’s been texting variations on the theme all day - and straightens his shoulders a bit.

Warlock sits down beside him, and nods hello at both of them. This is it.

“We’ve read your proposal,” Michael starts. She sounds friendly, for once, and she catches Aziraphale’s eye and gives him the barest hint of a smile; it helps. “We have a couple amendments we’d like to make, but overall, we’re happy to take these terms.”

And there it is. Aziraphale’s going to get what he wants. It doesn’t sink in; it’s just words, in his ears, sound waves that don’t mean anything. He’s prepared to have them taken away, taken back; some part of him expects Gabriel to swallow them whole.

“Excellent,” says Warlock, and he’s grinning. “Let’s see those modifications, then?”

Gabriel slides a folder across the table. He hasn’t met Aziraphale’s eyes yet, and he looks strangely subdued. Aziraphale almost feels sorry for him; there’s something about a silent Gabriel that’s not right. _Then again,_ Aziraphale thinks, _I’ve certainly been silent for too long. Maybe it’s his turn._

Warlock pages through the folder, humming under his breath, tapping at the bits marked in red as he thinks. Michael clears her throat and Aziraphale looks up, a bit startled.

“You look well,” she says.

It’s very strange to be sitting here across from his two - bosses? Ex-bosses? - without feeling like he’s a child called before the principal to handle some uncomfortable issue. “Thank you,” he says, surprised.

“Is there,” Michael says very delicately, “anything you’d like to say?”

 _Oh._ Aziraphale’s eyes flick over to Gabriel, who’s sitting somewhat awkwardly with his hands in his lap, eyes down. He looks back at Michael, who calmly opens her hand in Aziraphale’s direction, offering him the floor.

Does he have anything to _say._ Good _lord._ The years build up in his throat, choking him; the emails, the edits, the ways he’s let himself be silenced and diminished? Does he have anything to _say?_ The Crowley that lives in his head is shrieking.

Aziraphale closes his eyes for a second to silence everything.

He has so many things to say he could fill a book with them. He _has,_ nearly, the echoes of all of it coloring between every line of his story. And yet...

The part of him that’s entwined with Crowley - the bit that’s sleeping, the bit that sings in Aziraphale’s soul with the richness of a Zinfandel and the tartness of a Sauv Blanc; the part of him that looked into the vineyards and thought, _we’re home_ \- is unfurling, slowly. It’s his future, the future he hopes for; and there’s a peace there, a center that’s something stable and precious and suddenly Aziraphale doesn’t want to taint it with anything.

But he does have to say something. There’s a closure hovering here, on tentative wings, and Aziraphale does want to gently shut that door.

“Gabriel,” he says, his voice surprisingly calm.

Gabriel looks up at him. His eyes are dull, his face resigned.

“I think this has been a learning experience for all of us,” Aziraphale says gently.

Gabriel blinks, obviously not expecting this.

“You were very bad for me,” Aziraphale tells him, because it needs to be said: but it doesn’t need to be said in cruelty. “We don’t work together well, and I lost a part of myself trying to be what you and this company wanted me to be.” This — this feels good, like finally taking one’s shoes off at the end of the day; like the first sip of a decadent Cabernet Sauvignon in the evening.

“But I also allowed a lot of it to happen,” he continues, and catches the way Gabriel winces. “So I bear some of the responsibility as well. It took a while for me to realize how far down I’d pushed myself.”

He breathes in; breathes out the toxic relationship, the way he’d stuffed himself into such a tiny hole. “You also weren’t very nice to me,” he adds, a bit of censure in his voice. “Although I think you thought you were. Certainly not everyone approaches life the way you do, Gabriel.”

Aziraphale glances to the side. Warlock’s head is still down, poring over the papers, but his mouth has twitched up into a smile.

“Maybe,” Aziraphale continues, “maybe we’ll both go forward having learnt something about ourselves. I don’t think we’ll work together again, but I don’t wish you ill, Gabriel.” Another breath, this one almost ragged. “I forgive you.”

And isn’t that — it? He could yell, he could scream, he could cry, but what would it do? He’d rather say his piece and then quietly close the door on this entire thing. He can tell by the mood in the room that Gabriel’s being held responsible for losing Aziraphale as an employee; that should be punishment enough. It’ll hit Gabriel’s ego in ways Aziraphale would never be able to reach.

The room is quiet, and Aziraphale glances up at Michael again. Her face is a mask, but her eyes seem to be looking at him in a new light. Gabriel’s looking down at his hands again.

“This looks good,” Warlock says, breaking the silence with confidence. “We accept.”

———

“And that was that,” Aziraphale says, reaching for his wine glass. He’s opened an _Ecdyses_ Pinot - Lydia - to celebrate the end of his old life and the beginning of whatever new path his career’s gonna take.

“Still think you should have punched him, angel.” Crowley has _promised_ that he’s in bed and is going to sleep all afternoon once they’re off the phone. “How does it feel?”

“It feels,” Aziraphale starts, and then pauses. “I mean, it still hasn’t really sunk in yet, to be honest. But coming out of the meeting felt like...” How can he put it into words like this? His fingers itch for his keyboard.

“It felt like when I walked into _Ecdyses,_ ” he says finally. “Like something inside of me that had been asleep, or missing, was suddenly... there.”

As the silence grows Aziraphale realizes that this was maybe not the right thing to say at the moment. “I mean,” he stammers hastily. “Well, you know how I felt about the wine country.”

“Angel,” Crowley murmurs, and there are entire tones in it that fall through the speaker half-realized.

“Well,” Aziraphale murmurs back after another moment. “It’s true, Crowley.”

A sleepy sputter comes across the phone, and then Crowley says, “‘M too tired to deal with you right now, angel.”

“Go to sleep,” Aziraphale tells him through a silly, besotted smile. “I miss you, darling.”

“Miss you,” Crowley mumbles, and Aziraphale can hear him rolling over in the sheets. “Love you. Night.”

For the second time this week, Aziraphale’s left staring at his mobile as Crowley hangs up, ostensibly to sleep.

They’ve never said it. Through all of the upheaval and the tears and the way it _feels_ when he’s holding Crowley — and he’s never said it.

It isn’t like he doesn’t know. It isn’t like he hadn’t realized he had fallen in love with Crowley months ago. This is not a secret Aziraphale has tried to hide from himself; he’s well aware of it. He feels like he’s been saving it, like a gem in his pocket, waiting for the proper moment to reveal it like a surprise — and here’s Crowley, mumbling out truths in exhaustion.

Aziraphale closes his eyes and lets himself feel it. Crowley _loves_ him. And yes, he’s known this for months as well, but it’s different, hearing the words. Soft, sleepy tone; gentle exhalation. No gesture Aziraphale can make will ever be as precious and poignant as that.

But he can make a gesture, at least. Something for Crowley to wake up to.

_And I love you. Desperately. So much that the words barely have meaning, my dear. Have a good evening! I wish you luck with harvesting!_

Aziraphale presses S _end._

———

Crowley calls him at 2am - when he sees the message - sputters incoherently over the line for about thirty seconds, and then hangs up.

Aziraphale smiles to himself, sleepy and smug, and rolls over.

———

His life proceeds. Aziraphale continues to type up his notes from the trip, posting daily on his blog. He’s careful to not immediately stray _too_ far from the established style; it isn’t worth alienating FTA any more than he already has, and the announcement hasn’t yet been made. (He’s leaving all of that in Warlock’s very capable hands.) Plus, it’s satisfying to have the entries all the same, pieces and parts of this whole that has changed him so much.

His book is filling in nicely. He has passed the outline for the Other Book off to FTA; they’re allowing the company to use his name on it, and they’ve got a ghostwriter who should be able to finish it up into a nice coffee table book. His, though: Aziraphale’s book is a memoir; it’s intimate. His story is a novel.

He and Warlock have been talking about how to approach the real book. Aziraphale doesn’t really want to have this book touch FTA at all, so Warlock’s been looking for other options, trying to find a publishing agent who’d be interested in getting A.Z. Fell’s novel on the map without insulting FTA or encroaching on their agreement. Aziraphale’s already given him one raise - Warlock had looked at the numbers, unusually speechless - but he’s really going to have to give the boy another.

His income from FTA has been cut back, but they both expected that; the cost of his freedom is, of course, compensation. He’ll be fine for now, and he still has a basic check coming in for the blog; Warlock’s looking into that too, trying to find the kind of ads Aziraphale wouldn’t mind having on the site. Warlock’s doing a lot right now, but he’s told Aziraphale again and again that _his_ job is to continue producing content. The more he puts out right now, the more Warlock can shop him around.

(Plus Aziraphale thinks Warlock’s missing his friends and that lovely Adam boy more than he’s admitting. It wouldn’t be the first time Warlock’s thrown himself into work to counter heartache.)

Either way, Aziraphale just... continues. He puts out his blog posts, using the last of the photos he and Warlock had strategically taken their last few weeks there. He starts, tentatively, posting some of the kinds of things he used to post: recipes to pair with wines, ways to host a wine and cheese party, why you don’t have to have a white with fish. The reception is good - at this point Aziraphale’s had Warlock teach him how to look at the basic statistics - and so he continues to post, once a day, whatever’s on his mind at the moment.

With every word he writes about wine country, the feeling of — nostalgia? He isn’t really sure _what_ the feeling is, not yet. He misses it, and he misses Crowley, and it all seeps into his writing: a kind of wistful remembrance, something yearning and almost sad.

After what must be two dozen comments over the last few days asking whether he’s all right, Aziraphale stops typing, staring down at his hands.

———

_Is there a reason not to?_

_Everything has changed so much. I’ve changed. Once I was a shape that fit here: these chairs conforming to me, this library exactly my size. I fit behind this desk, letting the sun fall on me as I typed, bound by the many colorful reminders of rules I’d let others set for me._

_It isn’t that I don’t fit — I have not stopped fitting, here. It’s that I feel like I’ve found a place I fit better. It’s an old coat I can still slip into, but I’ve found a new one that might suit me more. Is it worth the cost?_

_Pulling up roots, moving ground: this I’ve done before. Jolly old England and all. Moves don’t bother me; I love this world, love seeing more of it. That isn’t the fear._

_Maybe there isn’t a fear, and that’s what I’m afraid of?_

_I’m here still because I expected to be here. I expected this to be my next step: some time in limbo, trying to work things out. But is there a reason to be here?_

_If everything else in my life is changing - if my work and my employment and my status are all evolving, shouldn’t I?_

_Maybe now is the time. Make the change I want, and make the other pieces fit to me for once._

_I could. I think about it every day. Count the reasons that I stay, weigh the pieces I am missing, and realize the math always points in the same direction. There is a place where I can be. A place where I discovered myself, discovered something hidden inside me that grew into a yield I never would have expected._

_Is there a reason I’m not there?_

———

It’s Warlock, in the end.

Of course it’s Warlock. Weeks have gone by and they’ve been on the phone daily, emailing consistently, working out the details. They’ve spent nights evolving ideas, so late Warlock’s slept on his couch a number of times. Things are starting to come together, piece by piece, and Aziraphale’s feeling actually hopeful about all of it.

Warlock throws himself onto Aziraphale’s couch and accepts the carton of takeaway Aziraphale offers him. (He knows Warlock’s order by heart, at this point: spring rolls and red curry chicken.) “We got it,” he says, grinning as he pops the container open.

 _It_ is a guest spot on Sunny State’s blog, where Aziraphale will submit a 3000-word piece about his visit to wine country, which will help broaden his readership and will also net a nice sum for 3000 words. Aziraphale’s quite pleased to have these kinds of doors open. His own work, shared elsewhere! How exciting!

They discuss it more as Warlock inhales his curry and Aziraphale picks at his Pad Thai. Warlock’s working on a few other slots, and he’s tentatively offered Kasy Maynard a post on Aziraphale’s blog, to see whether Aziraphale’s readers enjoy these crossovers.

They finish the meal and Aziraphale says, with some real cheer in it, “So, what’s next?”

Warlock looks at him. He’s stopped hiding these looks, the way Aziraphale feels like there are phrases across his face that Warlock’s reading. Probably no one else in this world would be able to read him like this.

“That depends,” Warlock says, and his voice is suddenly serious, his eyes looking at Aziraphale down to his bones.

It might have been threatening, once, but Aziraphale knows himself now, so he just looks back with a faint smile.

“We have enough options that it’s time to look a bit long-term,” Warlock explains. “Things are good enough with FTA that we have some freedom. And I realize this is an intrusive question, but I feel like I need to as it, cause I think I know the answer. Do you want to stay in LA?”

Huh. Trust Warlock to strike right to the heart of the issue.

And Aziraphale opens his mouth, and realizes — it’s been _Warlock_ that he’s been staying for. Not that Warlock _needs_ him by any means, but Aziraphale knows how much of his current situation he owes to Warlock, and he doesn’t want to make Warlock work any harder than he needs to.

Warlock is _family,_ Aziraphale thinks. It isn’t just about him, anymore. He needs to know that Warlock’s happy, too.

“I don’t know where your personal business stands, and I don’t want to know,” Warlock continues with a grin. “But I know you well enough, and I think it’s something to think about.”

Aziraphale ducks his head. _Move in with me,_ Crowley had said, and he’d pressed it into Aziraphale’s skin with his mouth, burning it like scars into his heart. Aziraphale knows now that Crowley only says what he means, but — is it a good thing to do? Does it make sense? Are they ready for this?

“Well,” he says, “I’m certainly — considering it. You know. Leaving Los Angeles.”

Warlock nods. And adds, a little bit clumsily, “Harvest is over, y’know, and it turns out ... Adam’s gonna come visit for. A while. Come stay with me, so we can, y’know.”

Work things out, Aziraphale thinks, much like he and Crowley need to.

“That’ll be nice,” he says instead, and means it. “You’ll have so much fun.”

Warlock, to his surprise, blushes bright red and looks away. Oh. _Oh,_ well, that too.

“We haven’t discussed it,” Aziraphale says slowly, “but assuming that things stay the way they are, it’s a, er, well. It would be a goal, of mine.” Saying it so boldly feels almost _naughty,_ in the best kind of way: _I’d like to move in with my lover._ Oh, isn’t that a word! It feels like a spark, in his mouth, in his thoughts.

“Honestly, I’ve been setting this up so that you can do it all remotely, with travel maybe once every other month to keep generating new content.” Warlock rubs his mouth with his hand, a gesture he only uses when he’s trying to hide being pleased. “I wasn’t sure if — well.” He glances up at Aziraphale and his grin goes crooked. “I thought maybe you’d want to leave LA no matter what. Go somewhere new. Not that you need a fresh start, but … sometimes it’s fun to have one.”

It’s true, and Aziraphale swallows down the rising tide of excitement inside him. _Fun._ When was the last time he made a decision for fun? Well, other than the six months they’d spent in wine country; he’d made a lot of fun decisions then. But before that — when had he last chosen something just to make himself smile?

“I’d, well,” he says. “I’d have to talk to Crowley about it. Of course.” A pause, and then: “And what would you do, my dear? I’ve little interest in going so far away I don’t see you any more.”

Warlock ducks his head, blushing, pleased. “I’ll be fine, Az,” he says. “I’ll have Adam here for a while, and then… We’ll figure something out.”

Oh, and that’s why he’d mentioned it: so that Aziraphale would be able to make a decision without worrying for Warlock. He won’t be leaving Warlock alone; the boy will have someone here to care for him as they both make their transitions. Warlock really is an amazing young man. He’s so neatly taken himself out of the equation, to let Aziraphale make a decision on his own.

“Well,” he says slowly, “if remote work is an option…”

They smile at each other, somewhat giddy.

———

Harvest is, in fact, over, without any major mishaps or losses, and Crowley has been catching up on his sleep. (And gosh, Crowley can sleep; Aziraphale’s delighted by it, by his sweet sleepy drawl and the way he sometimes dozes off on the phone to Aziraphale’s voice.) So Aziraphale sends a text, and when Crowley wakes up from whatever part of his sleep schedule this is, he finds his mobile ringing.

“Good morning, darling,” he says, and is rewarded by Crowley’s sputtering.

“It’s half four in the afternoon, angel.”

Aziraphale hums. “Is that morning for you, now?” It’s fun, gentle teasing between them, something Aziraphale would love to be doing in person. “I can’t seem to keep track of your schedule anymore.”

Crowley snorts. “Don’t make fun, do you know how many nights I was up during harvest?”

“Shh, darling, I didn’t say it wasn’t deserved.” There’s an excitement building up inside of him; it’s nerves, sure, but strangely good ones. He’s getting swept up in it. “Are you fully awake?”

“Never,” Crowley announces. “I need an angel to come help me wake up.”

It’s a silly thing, the kind of throwaway comment Crowley’s been making for weeks, a gentle teasing — but that feeling inside of Aziraphale bubbles up until he’s almost giddy. “Well,” he starts, “you might get one sooner rather than later.”

There’s a long sharp pause, and then Aziraphale hears Crowley swearing because he’s dropped his mobile directly onto his nose. (This has happened enough times that Aziraphale recognizes the sounds, which should be hilarious but is, mostly, cute. Crowley does it often enough when he’s newly-awake or mostly-asleep and Aziraphale says something he finds endearing. Aziraphale’s mostly worried about his poor face.)

“Angel,” Crowley gasps finally, as if punched in the stomach. “Angel, angel, angelangelangel, don’t mess with me, you know I’m old and my heart can’t take it.”

 _My heart can’t take it either,_ Aziraphale thinks, but doesn’t let himself get distracted. “Crowley. Did you mean it? When you, well, em.” He breathes in, sharp; exhales smooth. “About living with you.”

He can hear Crowley’s sharp stuttering inhale through the speaker like static; it’s released in a series of vowels that would make other languages jealous. “Wot, moving in?” Crowley asks, and Aziraphale can tell he’s sat up now; he’s picturing Crowley on the edge of his bed, a hand in his glorious hair as he stares at his mobile. “Course I meant it. When, tomorrow? Tonight? Yesterday? Door’s fuckin’ open, Aziraphale, _I mean it.”_

Aziraphale has to pause as that statement strikes him, like a hammer to a bell. “Oh, heavens,” he whispers into the phone. “Yes, Crowley. _Yes.”_

“D’you mean it,” Crowley barks at him, in a way that’s both wary and anticipatory. “Do you mean it, Aziraphale, I will _legiterally_ die if you are just asking or if you aren’t sure, please.”

“Legiterally isn’t a word,” Aziraphale tells him, feeling dazed and giddy.

“Adam says it is,” Crowley tells him faintly. “Adoptive lexicon, ‘n all ‘at.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale repeats. “Crowley, my dear, my darling. If you’ll have me - if you still want me, want this, if you’re willing to open up your home and your heart —” Aziraphale chokes, himself, but it isn’t all bad; he’s just full of emotions in this moment. He’s _never_ done this before, never risked anything like this, and yet rather than feeling like like he’s dangling from a single fraying thread, Aziraphale feels—. He feels surrounded by diamonds; he feels high as a kite; he feels like he himself is a lightbulb, an orchid, a jellyfish throwing off radiance in the dark.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says very plainly. “I want to come _home_.”

He hears Crowley’s breath catch at that, because he’s listening for it. He’s holding his own breath. He’s floating, thrilling, shaking; his hands are tingling where they’re clenched in his lap.

“Yeah,” Crowley croaks. “Come home, angel. Door’s open.”

———

_“This isn’t the kind of thing I would do,” I think, and then I stop._

_The language is faulty; the idiom flawed. If I am doing it, isn’t it a thing I would do? No matter my history, my track record, the way I’ve made decisions my entire life — if I am doing it, then it is the kind of thing I would do, because I am._

_It’s like when someone holds up a garment and says, this is a shirt for a man. If I am a woman, and I wear the shirt, isn’t it then a shirt for a woman? Gender politics aside, that isn’t what this is about: I feel like I’m doing something entirely uncharacteristic of myself, and yet the paradox repeats, because I am doing it._

_And it is the kind of thing I should always do — the kind of thing I should always have done. A thing to make myself happy; to make myself whole, in a way. To reach for joy while it’s there. I would say taking a chance, but I know the end result will be good, and it will be good for long enough that I will be pleased. Is anything forever? No. But this is no chance; I’ve already taken that. This is more like … a prize I might have won for myself. The treasure at the end of the rainbow._

_So maybe it is not what I would do, but what I should? Oh, the intricacies of linguistics! The sense of self, preserved forever in these words._

_Dear readers, let me leave you with this, if nothing else: the phrase ‘follow your heart’ is too simple for what I mean, but it’s the starting point: a baseline. If you keep yourself open to opportunities, there will come a time when something strikes you all the way down to your core - bone-deep; heart’s-deep - and you’ll feel frozen, ringing out like a bell, the singing chime of crystal. When that happens, do have the courage to listen. I almost did not, and I admit that. I am here upon the grace of others who supported me long enough to hear my own heart’s-song._

_Feel it. Know it. When you find your home, you’ll know. Do what you should._

———

 _ **treasure at the end of the rainbow,**_ Crowley texts, after Aziraphale sends him the full end of the book. _**Angel, I love you, but that’s so gay**_

 ** __** _You’re so gay,_ Aziraphale writes back.

_**good one, but im still right** _

**__** _So am I._

It makes him smile for the rest of the day.

———

It ends up taking about six weeks. Six weeks, for Aziraphale to get his things in order; six weeks as the endpoint of one thing and the beginning of another.

He talks to his landlord with trepidation. His neighbor overhears, and it turns out there’s a friend of a friend looking for a place. Aziraphale negotiates it out in a way he thinks works for all parties, and wonders whether Warlock would be proud of him, or whether the poor boy would laugh hysterically at the ground Aziraphale gave up. Well, and so: he’s pleased with himself, and that’s what matters.

He and Crowley spend hours sending images back and forth, arguing happily over the phone about whose couch they should keep and where on earth will they put all of these bookshelves and Aziraphale loves every minute of it.

“What on earth am I supposed to do with all the orchids?” Crowley yells. Aziraphale’s sitting on the floor with his mobile on speaker, packing up boxes of his books. “They need the humidity!”

“They can stay in the bathroom,” Aziraphale tells him for the fourth time. “But I need a room for my study, Crowley. Office. Whatever.”

It’s like now that they’ve committed to this plan, they’re full-speed forward, pedal to the floor, each of them more eager than anything to make it work. They bicker and badger each other and - at least over the phone - there’s none of the awkwardness there Aziraphale might have expected. He’d expected a lot of things, he thinks, as he pushes the box aside. He’d expected to have more anxiety about moving. He’d expected Crowley - desperately _private_ Crowley - to have more trouble giving up space. Instead, it’s like they’re aligning, drawing together like magnets.

It’s _fun._ And the fun of it is, somehow, overwhelming any underlying concerns either of them might have. They’re arguing about couch pillows and it’s _fun._

“Oh, fuck, I’m going to have to move the fucking Christmas cactus, angel, do you have any idea how _big_ it is?”

“I’m happy to share space with a few of your friends,” Aziraphale tells him.

Crowley grumbles, a soothingly happy sound. He’s so _pleased;_ Aziraphale knows, with all of the yelling and arguing and ranting, that this is how Crowley says yes. He can’t _let on_ that he’s pleased, of course. That would be far too much to ask.

“Look, I’ll see what I can do,” Crowley says, “but only four bookshelves, angel, it’s a bit ridiculous.”

Aziraphale gives his most offended gasp. “Most certainly _not_ four bookshelves! How will I survive?”

———

He throws a surprising amount of linens at Warlock - “Look, if Adam will be staying here, you’re going to want the extra towels” - who accepts them begrudgingly but refuses to take the bedsheets. “That’s just weird, Az,” he says, grinning over a pizza.

Some of his furniture will be left behind; the friend of a friend of a neighbor does need furniture, and Aziraphale’s arranged to sell the pieces he won’t be needing, so that he doesn’t have to bother relocating them anywhere.

Aziraphale expects it to feel odd, parceling out pieces of his life. Instead, it feels freeing. He doesn’t need all of his towels because _Crowley_ has towels. He doesn’t have to be self-sufficient. Not for a long while, at least. He’ll have Crowley.

It’s likely a lot of it will stay stored in Crowley’s basement for a while until they get a feel for how they work. They don’t need two sets of dishes, certainly, but Aziraphale refuses to throw out his lovely dishware set, so he packs it carefully with sweaters providing the buffer of protection, and labels each box very carefully. _Kitchen, dishware, for storage._

He’s taking a huge risk. They may not be able to live together. It might ruin things. Aziraphale tells himself this sixteen times a day. He still feels more giddy than anything.

———

Warlock and FTA find him an editor; she’s also a contractor, rather than an employee, and Aziraphale allows himself a sigh of relief he lets no one else see. Her name is Jacy, she’s stationed somewhere out east, and she has the most accurate, laser-like focus on grammar and wording he’s ever seen — even though all her emails come through lacking both capitalization and punctuation of any kind, and she’s constantly swearing, in email, on the phone, in her comments on Aziraphale’s manuscript. Aziraphale likes her immediately.

She’s taking time to edit his work down to the very last comma, and Aziraphale expects he’ll be in wine country before she’s done. “You need to finalize the title and the dedications page,” Jacy tells him, sounding like she’s had five cups of coffee. “Memoir like this, it needs a dedication. Hit people in the feels right away.”

“I think I can manage that,” Aziraphale says. He hasn’t yet settled on all of it, but he knows what he wants to do in his head. He just has to let the words process and come out of his fingers, as usual.

———

_The oldest vines in the Russian River Valley grow slowly, but they still grow. Year after year, they respond to the pull of the cycle. They bud, and grow, and flourish; then the budburst, and the flowering, and the fruit set, as they show what they’ve gathered, what they’re capable of. The harvest, then, as that golden prize. And then: trimming, tending, cutting back and preparing the ground for winter._

_But vines are not dormant in the winter. They do not sleep. Below the surface, root flush happens, each plant stretching out just that bit farther. Even the old vines look to expand, beneath the surface, where it can’t be seen._

_Likewise, our own growth has no endpoint. It’s a cycle. Roots grow when we’re not looking. We don’t find out until we truly need to draw on them, but they’re there._

———

Aziraphale has absolutely refused to drive the moving van, and he offered Warlock free food and a few days off, so the young man is driving him the entire way. (Warlock will pick up Adam from his apartment in Santa Rosa, so it isn’t entirely a favor.) He’s absolutely stressed from packing, from watching the movers transport all of his precious things, from being in this car for hours. He feels dirty and sweaty and needs a shower. Aziraphale is incredibly cranky and fairly grumpy.

But they pull in to that familiar parking lot, finally, and his heart leaps as he notices the people hanging around outside. The sign on the door says closed, and all of Crowley’s friends are there. Anathema and Newt are holding hands as they lean against the building, and The Them are gesturing and arguing about something as usual.

Something breaks in his chest and tightens in his heart, and Aziraphale says, “Oh, dear. I do think I’m going to cry.”

“Gross,” Warlock announces emphatically, but he’s smiling. “Do it away from me, thanks.”

They get out of the car. Embraces are exchanged. Aziraphale might have been embarrassed, once, wearing his heart so clearly on his sleeve, but now he can greet them, take their gentle teasing, even tease back as he glances over at Crowley’s house.

The door opens. Warlock’s heading back to instruct the movers, but every single atom of Aziraphale is turning, magnet realigning to a new point.

Crowley’s cut his hair. The ends of it are hovering just past his shoulders; the top half is pulled back into a loose, messy bun, as usual. He’s wearing charcoal jeans with the cuffs rolled up and some kind of band tee. He’s barefoot, as usual, and for some reason that’s what strikes Aziraphale: seeing Crowley’s feet, his toes in the grass, is something so intimate in this moment.

Crowley isn’t wearing his glasses. He’s looking at Aziraphale like someone drowning.

Aziraphale doesn’t remember running, but suddenly he’s there, his arms around Crowley’s shoulders, Crowley’s hands pulling him in by the waist, and they’re clinging to each other like it’s the end of the world.

 _This,_ Aziraphale thinks. _This is the should. This is worth it._

It takes everyone and the movers a few hours to get everything settled into Crowley’s - their - house. Crowley is a whirlwind of elbows and sarcastic quips, and Aziraphale’s a bit overwhelmed at it all, but eventually they have Aziraphale’s couch (”Wow, angel, it’s even uglier than it was in the photos”) next to Crowley’s armchairs (”They don’t match at _all,_ my dear, you’re quite the liar”) and his bookshelves (”I said four!”) up the stairs to where Crowley has, to Aziraphale’s surprise, rearranged the office to perfectly fit Aziraphale’s writing desk and bookshelves. There are plants hanging from the ceiling, in front of the window, and Aziraphale realizes that when he sits down to write, it’ll feel like a garden.

And then Crowley shoos everyone out of the house with the promise of a meal on him tomorrow and the house is gone. Crowley leans up against the door and looks at him. Aziraphale is exhausted; his head feels like it’s encased in fog, and his legs are aching from the strain of his book-heavy boxes.

“Hey,” says Crowley, all crooked and tentative and _happy._ “Welcome home, angel.”

Aziraphale sighs. “Thank you,” he says, and hopes that everything he means comes out in his voice.

And then they’re kissing in the middle of the room, suddenly, surrounded by stacks of boxes and the smell of cardboard and tread grass. Aziraphale could _weep._ Crowley’s kissing him like a treasure, like he’s been pining for thousands of years, like Aziraphale’s something Crowley has been craving forever. Aziraphale tangles his fingers into Crowley’s hair immediately; he did love the long wild curls, but this is good too, the way it frames Crowley’s neck so that Aziraphale can wrap his hands in it and _tug_ Crowley down to him.

“How did I miss you this much,” Crowley says, even as he’s reaching for the buttons on Aziraphale’s shirt, “this is stupid. I’m not admitting anything.”

Aziraphale gets his hands up under Crowley’s tee, fingers digging in to that pale skin, the slender waist. “I haven’t accused you of anything yet, my darling.”

“Stupid,” Crowley repeats, his mouth immediately settling down on Aziraphale’s neck. Aziraphale shudders at the touch, the faint brush of teeth against his sensitive skin. “I’m fucking stupid for you, angel, you need to know that; certified fucking idiot, me.”

They stumble upstairs. They’ve decided to keep Crowley’s bed, as it’s far more decadent than what Aziraphale had. It’s a quick trick to undress each other, but then once they’ve climbed underneath the covers, they both pause, wrapped up in each other, nothing but skin on skin.

Crowley’s shaking. ‘You’re here,” he says into Aziraphale’s neck. “You’re here.”

“And I’ll be here,” says Aziraphale. He’s overwhelmed by this: all of Crowley pressed up against him, in his arms, himself then overwhelmed with Crowley. There’s something that’s more than a familiar scent, or feel; it’s like settling in, settling down, roots flushing out all around him. He might be shaking a bit himself. “I’ll be here, tomorrow and the day after. There’s no deadline, now.”

“Ffffffffuck.” Crowley wriggles in his arms, turns and kisses him deeply. Aziraphale licks into it, tugging a bit at Crowley’s lower lip, pulling him closer. He wants them to phase together, meld into each other. That piece of his heart he’d given Crowley, the one that had lain dormant over these months, is glowing, encompassing him with this need to pull Crowley into himself with the force of a meteor.

It turns out they’re both far too keyed up to do anything but kiss, and shake, and murmur things into each other’s collarbones. It’s the contact they need, after this separation: everything bared between them, pressed together. Their hands touch, their lips leave marks, but this desperate clinging is what they’re both seeking, not sex. Aziraphale finds he has to run his fingers over every inch of Crowley, making sure he’s all there, that nothing’s changed: he feels _right,_ and Aziraphale needs a lot more of that feeling before he’ll be able to let Crowley go. Is it possible to become touch-starved when you aren’t even that used to the touching? Maybe he’s just greedy.

“I love you,” Aziraphale finally says, looking Crowley full in the face. It shocks him with how much he means it; his heart pounds with it, like there’s gold flowing through his veins.

“Fuck,” Crowley says eloquently, and then, “Shit. Fuck! Not what I meant to — Aziraphale. _Angel._ ” Crowley reaches out to cup Aziraphale’s cheek. “Fuck, angel. _I love you_.”

And those words hit just as hard, somehow. They’re both reeling a bit, giddy idiots, Aziraphale thinks. It takes them another long period of time in bed, muttering the words back and forth to each other, waiting to see whether they grow old. They don’t.

They end up dozing off together, naked limbs entwined under Crowley’s lavishly soft sheets, wrapped up in each other so hard it should be impossible to sleep.

———

(It doesn’t stay that way, of course. Once the need for absolute closeness has been sated, the hunger between them sparks like it has from the beginning.

“I remember the first time I saw you,” Crowley says, pressing wet kisses along the curve of Aziraphale’s belly. “You were wearing a fucking sweatervest. The next time it was a goddamn bowtie.” Aziraphale’s listening, but most of his attention has been drawn to the press of Crowley’s finger inside him, crooked _just_ so; Aziraphale squirms, and whines in his throat as the faintest hint of pleasure pulses out from his prostate - before Crowley moves his finger away, again, keeping it still, _millimeters_ away.

“You are a tease and a tart,” Aziraphale manages to say, and it only sounds a _little bit_ like he’s panting. “And you always have been.”

Crowley slowly slides his finger out, and then two are pressing into Aziraphale; he whines again, needy, as Crowley’s fingers pump all too gently in and out. “You were the most beautiful fucking thing I’d ever seen in my life,” Crowley says, ducking to kiss Aziraphale’s chest; it doesn’t work, though, because Aziraphale can see him blushing. “And I said to myself, Crowley, don’t fall for the man in the goddamned bowtie.”

Aziraphale breathes what might be a laugh, which turns into a sob as Crowley presses both fingertips into his prostate. “Crowley, please,” he says, wanting to be - claimed, taken, he a part of Crowley and Crowley a part of him.

Crowley makes a wondering noise and scissors his fingers, making Aziraphale groan. His cock is aching, slick dripping down it already.

“I didn’t even know you were A.Z. Fell,” Crowley tells him, removing both fingers and lining himself up. “You just - the way your eyes lit up - fuck, angel, I’ve been yours from the very beginning.”

It’s an admission he doesn’t think Crowley could have made at any other point, but here they’re both vulnerable, and Aziraphale whispers _I love you_ as Crowley slides home inside him, filling him completely, to the brim.)

———

Jacy is yelling at him. “Yeah, good, we’re making the changes, but you have to settle on a fucking title!” There’s a strange sound in the background, and Aziraphale can’t tell if she’s smoking or just making a funny noise; it’s hard to tell. “I can’t shape this book unless I know what it’s _called,_ that’s part of the _job._ ”

“Right,” Aziraphale says, looking around him. His bookcases fill the room completely, and it would be claustrophobic except for the way Crowley’s chosen plants with long trailing vines that are working their way across the ceiling on carefully-placed wires. Tendrils of flowers and ivy fall down charmingly, and when they get too long, Aziraphale trims them and puts them in water on his desk.

“Get me that shit by tomorrow,” she tells him, “or I’m putting Gabriel’s name in.”

She hangs up on him, the way she usually does. Aziraphale stares at the familiar screen of his writing computer, glances around at his collection of bookshelves, Crowley’s plants interspersed between his old friends.

It should feel jarring, to look up and not have his familiar walls. Instead it feels like a puzzle piece put in place.

He knows if he goes downstairs, he’ll find some kind of treat Crowley’s left: a scone, a cinnamon roll, half a panini. It works; Crowley tends _Ecdyses_ during the days, and Aziraphale writes until he runs out of words, and then they come back together. There’s something about knowing that he’ll see Crowley every evening if he wants that’s just… comforting. Sometimes he’s worn out; sometimes Crowley’s exhausted. They alternate making meals for each other; Aziraphale’s are much less fancy than Crowley’s, for sure, but there’s a certain joy in making a meal to share, even if it’s just Aziraphale’s best sandwiches. (He’s a gourmet; they are _very good_ sandwiches.)

They aren’t sick of each other yet. They sit and watch Crowley’s horrible cooking shows (he likes _Cutthroat Kitchen_ and _Kitchen Nightmares_ ; both of these shows give Aziraphale - a self-admitted food snob - an absolute stomachache), they read together (Crowley on his mobile at first, but he often ends up tipped over Aziraphale’s shoulder or with his head in Aziraphale’s lap, demanding to be read to), and they’ve fucked in at least half of the rooms in the house (”I’ve wanted to do this since you moved the damn desk in here,” Crowley says, looking up at Aziraphale from the floor, on his knees in the study underneath his desk and his steady old work computer).

Days go on. Then weeks, and then Aziraphale has been there for a month, and they’ve just slipped into this: an orbit, the two of them revolving around one another, and somehow generating a light that shines brighter than either one of them might have alone.

That first month heals something in Aziraphale: a gap, filled; a puzzle piece, solved. A wound he didn’t know was bleeding, stopped. And it doesn’t matter, then, being worried about the future like he was before; he’s home.

———

Aziraphale has stopped keeping track of the weeks, but when the very first copy comes, he hands it to Crowley.

“Nice work, angel,” Crowley says, picking it up. “But I’ve read most of it, haven’t I?”

Aziraphale hums, and opens the cover. “There are quite a few pieces you haven’t read, my darling.”

Crowley snorts. “They’d better all be about me, or else I’m not gonna bother.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale says, handing it to Crowley with a smile. “There’s one bit about you that you’ll want to see.”

**———**

** Old Vines **

**__** _How I Found Myself in the Russian River Valley_

__ _A. Z. Fell_

_To WTD, who continues to open doors I never knew existed. I could give you every cent I’ve ever owned and still be in your debt._

_and_

_To AJC, a miracle I never expected to deserve. Let us grow together, tendril and trellis, until we’re old vines ourselves._

_(Stop sputtering.)_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm having emotions, my friends. there's just an epilogue left here, and i'll be making my speeches and giving my thanks there, because i can't handle it right now.
> 
> this is the last real chapter. this is, really, where the story ends; the epilogue is just a peek. i hope you've all enjoyed the journey. for a story about growth, i feel like i've grown just as much as the vines, and just as much as the characters; i've grown in every direction, and a lot of it is thanks to you.
> 
> stay tuned. it's almost over. god, i love every single one of you that has ever commented here.


	21. Epilogue: Aged in Earth and Parchment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [some months later]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With a story like this, it takes a village of support to get this far. I can’t pretend I’ve done this all on my own. My thanks go out as follows:  
> \- to Sep, who put up with endless conversations about Nana and Popo, helping me work out a number of plot points; bless, darling, love you  
> \- to feathers, my murder husband, who I love desperately and who has supported me through this fic even though he isn’t into GO fandom, and probably won’t even see this note until, like, 2024, so fuck you anyway  
> \- to the entire feral server for their support, to the point where they all got cameos: I’m not gonna name you all because you’re already in the fucking fic, but I love you madly and couldn’t have gotten this far without your yelling. So many times your thoughts and comments and dumb jokes have inspired me. beemovie mcsheen superhell.  
> \- to my lovely dumbass husband who didn’t have anything invested in this himself but inevitably cheered for me any time I made progress  
> \- to every single one of you who has reached out: on tumblr, in tags or DMs; those of you who made fanart; everyone who commented, I promise I’ve read every one, even if I haven’t replied; anyone who even left kudos or just… appreciated the story I’m telling. I haven’t had the time to thank you, at all. Maybe I’ll get there some day, but please know every one of your comments has been seen and loved.
> 
> This epilogue is for you.

———

[some months later]

———

Crowley’s out in the Sangiovese.

They’re so fucking _small._ Yeah, sure, he’s done this before — his third year at the winery, nearly nine years ago now, he’d had to replant some Pinot, some of the Zin, the Grigio … this isn’t his first time. And yet, looking at the tiny little vines, Crowley can’t _help_ but feel — things. He’s feeling Things. It’s fucking stupid and he hates every minute of it, except that he’s fucking happier than he ever remembers being in his entire life.

Each tiny little vine plant is tucked into its own little carton, standing up straight inside each little plastic tube wrap to protect it from wind and sun and strangers who might come tromping through this precious space. Crowley’s let it be known inside the growing family of _Ecdyses_ that the two acres of Sangiovese are even more off-limits than the Old Vine Zin. He’s pretty sure no one has come out here except himself. At least they all still fear the wrath of Crowley, even though all of their names are now on the goddamn paperwork.

It was the first big thing he’d done with the additional capital freed up from being out from under Hell Law’s thumb — get two of his idling three acres cleaned out and ready to plant. Before, the thought of it had always made him tentative, knowing that any new investment was another chance for H.E.L. to tear thing out from under him. This bit of _Ecdyses_ is his freedom from them, right here, planted in fresh soil. It feels really fucking good.

He and Aziraphale had made the order themselves, picking a place that swore all rootlings had been fathered by real French vines, imported to California only fifteen years ago. They’d called the crew from Los Angeles, expecting maybe one or two extra pairs of hands; the entire group had come up in their bumpy horrible van, singing something awful that was half Wonderwall and half Backstreet Boys and four hundred percent out of tune. They’d gotten two acres planted in record time with the familiar help, Crowley had sacrificed nearly an entire crate of Old Vine Zin to the cause, and the crew had gone home happy.

(Pepper and Brian and Wensleydale had just looked at each other, grinning, and when Crowley had demanded to know what was so funny, they’d showed him their five-year plan for the place — which included, _quel suprise,_ replanting two of the three acres immediately. Crowley had tried to send them all home.)

He likes to come out here, now. The old vines, as always, remain a safe haven, but this is something …tentative. It’s a risk, really, Crowley’s first big risk since he took the entire thing on eleven-and-change years ago. Sangiovese isn’t common out here in California - it’s a European grape - and yet he’s crammed thirteen tons of research down his throat over the last few months, and certain varietals do very well out here if tended properly. He’s actually a little bit excited to see all the tiny vinelets in their little supports, out there working hard to take in all the nutrients they can, growing roots. Crowley hopes they grow deep.

(Aziraphale has plans for a Meritage. Crowley, who has kept his wines separate for _over a decade,_ is _appalled._ )

“Psst,” he murmurs. The other vines are used to his yelling and blandishing; these vines, he had promised Aziraphale, would be something different. “Go on. Take in that sun, and put out those roots. See? Don’t be scared. I need you to grow, damnit. For him.”

The rows of Sangiovese look back at him: small, tender, vulnerable. A promise of something new, and also a promise of time: years invested here, working towards something in the future. The vines won’t produce anything worth noting until their third year, and won’t really be worthy for five. Crowley thinks about five years with Aziraphale, watching something grow.

“Drink deep, darlings,” Crowley tells the little vinelings. “It’s safe here.”

———

“Stop fidgeting, Crowley,” Anathema says, tugging the damp rag from his fingers.

“’M not …fidgeting,” Crowley says. Insists. “I’m cleaning, since none of you little shits seem to bother anymore.”

“You’ve wiped the bar down three times in the last hour,” Anathema tells him. “And you swept the floor, which I haven’t seen you do since I’ve been here. You know, you need to learn to survive without your better half for longer than a few hours.”

“I survived two weeks without him,” Crowley says primly, “when he took that trip out to Chicago, remember? You’re just being critical.”

Which probably isn’t true; it’s more that Nath and Newt and The Them have all felt like having contributed money into this ridiculous venture gives them full license to mock its original owner. Rude! And fucking stupid, since Crowley still has a significant majority share and can vote any one of them out if he feels like it. He made that a codicil in their agreement, and Wensleydale had very seriously tapped it into the document with a number of other ridiculous entries in small print.

(Turns out Wensley’s fine print had also included two new ovens for the kitchen, industrially shiny and so modern Newt’s still a little afraid of them. They’ve tripled cinnamon roll capacity, though.)

“Here,” says Anathema, and when Crowley turns she’s holding a very full glass of what looks and smells like Judith. “Go sit outside, look at your vines, and drink this. He’ll be here soon enough.”

Crowley takes the glass. He’s learnt to be - it isn’t _managed,_ so much, because he hates that, but he’s learnt to take gentle suggestion from the others when he’s starting to spiral. It keeps him from going too deep and taking it out on any of the others. So much of this has been a learning process; he’s surprised at just how much more open Anathema and Newt are, now that their place at _Ecdyses_ has been clarified and guaranteed. He hadn’t been aware of how much they’d been holding back, and every now and then he feels a little bad about it until he comes to his senses and remembers that emotions are for fools and Aziraphale.

So he takes the glass of wine - no matter that it’s 13:45, this is California - and heads back to the house to go sit in his garden. With Aziraphale here, the design of all his gardens has changed, albeit subtly; Crowley’s taken much care to accent Aziraphale’s favorites, turning nearly a quarter of the vegetable garden over to tomatoes (Aziraphale has a _thing_ for tomatoes) and far more zucchini than he ever expected to grow. His normal varietals in the front garden are already starting to be biased towards tulips and roses.

His eyes close, and Crowley drifts for a while, content.

He can hear the scuffle even from back where he sits - he's been absorbing sunlight on the bench, much like a basking snake - and Crowley unwinds himself from the puddle of limbs and gets himself upright, to go see how Aziraphale has done.

———

"Darling!" Aziraphale bursts out the second Crowley shows up behind the tasting bar, and Crowley's senses go fizzed with pleasure at it. There are public guests there, but Aziraphale somehow gets himself behind the bar - did he lift himself over it? If he did, Crowley will never forgive himself for missing it - and then Crowley's caught in his favorite angel embrace. Aziraphale is particularly suited to give out hugs, sure, but Crowley's favorite is when something has overwhelmed Aziraphale so much that he forgets all of his propriety and manners and decor and simply gathers Crowley up in his arms like Crowley's so much loose yarn, and hangs on. He only does this when he's _jubilantly_ happy, and every single layer of Crowley goes off in static about it.

“Oh,” Aziraphale is murmuring into his ear, “oh, my dearest, _oh,”_ and Crowley has to grit his teeth so that he doesn’t simply pick up Aziraphale (he can - the muscles earned managing winery equipment are no joke, even though Crowley has been told he looks like a pipe cleaner - but Aziraphale always fusses when he does so) and take him outside and upstairs into their bedroom. However, that’s probably rude, and Aziraphale knows how to drop hints when that’s the kind of thing he wants, so Crowley hugs him back and waits.

“So, Crowley,” Aziraphale says, when they finally separate, and it’s in the voice that declares he’s planned this avenue of speech, and something’s about to happen, and Crowley just has to hang on and try to manage it. He can feel his face flushing already because his own flesh is a goddamned traitor when it comes to Aziraphale, and that’s never fair, but — it is what it is. Completely embarrassed, his cheeks heating to the color of his hair, Crowley turns to look at his angel.

“I believe that this... is for you.” Aziraphale reaches into one of the inside pockets of his ridiculous stupid jacket and Crowley has to roll his eyes twice to make his point. Aziraphale has this - thing - it’s like part overcoat and part a jacket and maybe trying to be a blazer and entirely too khaki and Crowley doesn’t understand what previous decade barfed up this coat as fashionable but he wishes one of them would take it back now, please, with interest.

Even with the double eye-roll Aziraphale outwaits him and Crowley finally comes back to a standstill. “What is it, angel?” Crowley asks, leaning up against the bar and attempting to remember back when customers thought he was cool and unapproachable.

“Take a look,” Aziraphale says softly, holding out a piece of paper. “This is for you.”

Crowley takes it dumbly, and it takes him a good minute or two to remember how to read it. The name, address - _their_ address - the bank’s names, the open lines to be printed, the text. The zeroes. It’s a lot of zeroes. It’s got Aziraphale’s name in the corner and Crowley’s name on the line and that’s a whole bunch of zeroes there, staring into Crowley’s mismatch eyes like it’ll make sense at some point.

“Can’t be,” Crowley says finally, and he - wrenches himself back into space - hold the check back out to Aziraphale. “What in bloody hell is this, angel?”

And Aziraphale finally lets his face erupt — it’s beaming like warmth from a stove, all spiced-hot and comforting. The smile looks like hearth and home and four hundred things Crowley hadn’t ever thought about before Aziraphale.

“So, based on the success of his last book,” Warlock starts, and how did Warlock show up here without Crowley knowing; he has an arm around Adam’s waist, fingers tucked into one of the beltloops on Adam’s jeans, and he looks very strangely relaxed for it. Crowley blinks. “We had sufficient grounds to make a better case for his second book.”

Crowley looks back at Aziraphale, because that’s a bit much, and Aziraphale just gestures at the check in his hand again.

“That’s my advance, darling,” Aziraphale tells him. “On the second book. And since the first took care of most of my - needs - well.” He swallows. “No pressure, of course, but. I’d like to invest this one into _Ecdyses,_ my darling, if you, er.” Another pause. “If you’d let me.”

Crowley’s big frozen. Not in any kind of bad way — it’s just that every ounce of him is overloaded, having heard in Aziraphale’s voice a number of things he’s been waiting to hear for such a long time, and — it’s a lot, you know, it’s a _lot._ Good fucking actual God, it really and truly is a lot of numbers.

“I, uh,” Crowley starts, aware that he absolutely sounds like the respectable owner of a classy winery, “look.” He reaches out, pulling Aziraphale in and invoking his own privacy rule. “Angel, _jesus_ , what the _fuck,_ are you sure?”

“Crowley,” says Aziraphale, beaming up at him. There are a number of zeroes floating between them and it will cover those tiny sprouts in the northeast corner; it will cover the cost of the little sturdy tubes they have to wear until they’re solid enough to bear a trellis. It’ll cover so much more; It’ll cover for years. “Spend it on your vines, and be happy with it. It’s yours. I’m sure.”

“Not mine,” Crowley murmurs, overwhelmed and happy. “Ours, angel. Ours.”

———

By the time Crowley can think again, their customers have left, and he realizes that everyone’s already _here,_ and so they close up early for a bit of a celebration. It’s at this impromptu party that Crowley learns this wasn’t at all any kid of spontaneous move: Aziraphale and Warlock have been working with The Them, with Anathema and Newt, to make sure Aziraphale’s portion is recognized as Crowley’s, and that their shares are tied together in a number of subtle ways Crowley actually thinks are genius but isn’t going to ever say out loud.

It makes Aziraphale a _partner_ in the business - there really are a lot of zeroes - and the rest of the investors are happy to have it that way. Anathema declares she wouldn’t be Crowley’s actual _partner_ in this mess for all the shares in the world, and Newt just laughs and continues loading cookies onto plates.

And the fact that Aziraphale’s been planning this, as always, just blows him over. Crowley wants to fall backwards onto his cushioned bed and stare at the ceiling for days with it: overwhelmed; devoted. He has no words for what Aziraphale is doing, for what Aziraphale has just done. This is a notable advance. _Old Vines_ had blazed through a number of best-seller lists - never at the top, but always at an unexpected level as it skipped from memoir to romance to nonfiction to _cooking,_ honestly - and its success had been remarkable when one compensated for the odd way it had been produced and marketed; the story had settled into an oddly appreciable niche, with a number of readers finding themselves in the rich text and detailed tale of an older man finding his true calling.

And yet — here’s Aziraphale, offering Crowley everything that came from that. And repeating it, again and again, until so many people know that he’ll never be able to take it back. Crowley is giddy, ecstatic, a spirit yelling from the rooftops.

At some point he pulls Aziraphale aside, into the office he barely has to use anymore, because he has to double-check, triple-check, make Aziraphale say it forty million more times.

“You know what this means, angel,” Crowley says, trying to look imposing, although the stupid grin he feels on his face is probably negating all of it.

Aziraphale looks up at him through blond eyelashes, a faux-innocence he’s used over the past few months entirely to his advantage. Crowley’s stupidly weak to it, and Aziraphale knows it — and Crowley can barely even mind, because he’s still thrilled every time he gets to give Aziraphale something he wants. “Do I?” He asks, with that smile that drives Crowley to frustrating heights.

“Means you’re stuck with me,” Crowley says, his voice thick with it. (That isn’t all it means, but he’s not giving that up so early.) “You’re stuck with all of us, angel. You sure you’re sure?”

And Aziraphale’s smile blooms brilliant as a sunrise across his face. He reaches up to cup Crowley’s cheek - in the middle of the office! - and sighs, sounding unbearably content. “Incredibly sure, my darling.”

Crowley bends to kiss him, again and then again. He’s never had a partner - someone who will be an equal, here, who will come to this with their own set of opinions and knowledge and will lovingly and preciously debate the management of this stupid place for the rest of their days.

“No,” Crowley murmurs, five minutes later and a whole lot more distracted. “We are _not_ fucking in my office for the first time when the entirety of our Board of Directors is still outside and getting drunk on my - our - Reserve.”

“Well, drat,” says Aziraphale, which really sums the whole thing up.

———

The thing is, Aziraphale being stuck with the Ecdyses crew is just the beginning.

Crowley made himself a — well. Made himself a promise, but also set himself a couple conditions to be met before he let his, er, more impulsive impulses run free with Aziraphale. He’s never really worried that things would be bad, but sometimes even two good things can’t live with each other, so he made himself… not stop; not really. Slow down. Crowley’s still worried about going too fast for his angel. The last thing he wants to do - with so many things so good between them - is jump any kind of gun. He doesn’t want to jump anything. Just normal, Aziraphale-speed walking, here.

It sounds so clumsy and stupid: a number of checkpoints; a hallway of tentatively-opened doors. Crowley’s brain is a complicated mass, an entire goddamn mess of vines and garbage; he shouldn’t ever be expected to have a clear thought.

But there are _things._ There are always things he _wants._

Crowley waits for Aziraphale, always. It isn’t unfair; Crowley’s stupid heart jumped, in this case, as fast as a hummingbird on crack, and the rest of him fell with it. And even from the beginning he’s known Aziraphale to be the slow and steady one, and having lived with him for months, it’s even truer. Aziraphale is the grounding wire; Crowley’s the static electricity.

So he’s always told himself - ever since the night Aziraphale had called and asked to _come home_ \- that it was best to wait for some kind of sign from Aziraphale - any kind of sign - that Aziraphale was comfortable enough with their situation to consider… certain things. Crowley’s never doubted Aziraphale’s devotion — not even once. But Crowley also knows that you can’t force comfort. He knows Aziraphale’s never done anything like this before, and even when you’re all-in, it takes _time_ to be all-in _and_ completely content in it. So Crowley’s been waiting, and watching, and enjoying every step Aziraphale has taken towards truly making this his home.

Because to be honest, Crowley’s wanted to do this since _last August._

He takes one last look at the ring - gleaming white and rose gold, woven around each other like vines entwined - and then leaves the box on Aziraphale’s pillow.

He’ll find it when they come home tonight, and then - now that Aziraphale wants to be a partner, to be a part of this place that saved Crowley’s self so long ago - then Crowley can ask him, here, in the privacy of their bedroom. _Their_ bedroom. Crowley won’t really be able to think of it as anything else, ever; it took him so long to open himself up that this space will never belong to anyone who isn’t Aziraphale. Not that he intends there to be anyone but Aziraphale. That’s kind of the whole point of the ring thing.

Crowley takes one more look at the little box, sitting there, and then heads back to the tasting room.

———

Aziraphale is laughing at something Newt has said when Crowley comes back; his angel’s cheeks are nearly bright red with joy and wine. Crowley nudges Aziraphale with his elbow, and Aziraphale wraps an arm around his waist without even blinking; it’s an instinctual movement, and Crowley leans into it. He’s so happy he could _hum._

He glances around the tasting room. Adam and Warlock, holding hands, are catching up with Brian; Wensleydale and Pepper seem to be arguing with Anathema about something, and he can’t tell which one of them is losing. The tasting room is lit with the light of the sun, just now approaching the horizon on its way down; even the air tastes golden and warm.

Crowley thinks about Her, for the first time in a while. He wonders whether She had any idea what She’d ended up giving him, this worthless wild relative-of-a-relative She’d just bequeathed a vineyard to; he wonders what She’d been thinking when She’d penned that line into Her will. He considers himself, twelve years ago, strung-out and alone, looking out at thirteen acres of vines and never having tasted dirt, not even _once._

He’s spent years wondering why he got this second chance, and he’s spent years afraid that something would take it away. And it isn’t that …it’s not like he won’t be out screaming at the Petite Sirah and having fits when it rains and calling the Chardonnay funny names, right? He’s still that tangled ball of anxiety and need, in a lot of ways. But…

Aziraphale’s arm tightens around him, and Crowley glances over. Aziraphale, A.Z. Fell, most beautiful bastard alive: this man’s looking at him like he’s the one who hung the sun in the sky. And his family - their family, to use a terrifying term, although it might be the weirdest fucking family to ever exist - they’re here, and they’re happy, and the vineyard is theirs.

“Penny for your thoughts?”

“Worth a dime, at least,” Crowley tells him, and grins helplessly back at the way Aziraphale only has to lift an eyebrow in response to get his point across.

“Refill for your thoughts, then,” Aziraphale says, reaching for his glass, which Crowley’s absently drained while lost in thought.

“I just,” Crowley starts, and he doesn’t really have a way to explain it. All of this - any of this - what are the chances of it happening? How does someone like him end up in a place like this? “Hm. I, uh. Y’know.”

_Thank you,_ Crowley thinks at Her, wherever Her soul may be pleasantly resting.

“Just love you, angel,” he says softly, and kisses Aziraphale.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there you have it. 
> 
> For those of you asking about printed copies, or downloading the fic — Yes! But hold off a bit. Now that it’s done, I’ll be going back through with a heavy editors eye for all those pesky typos (I am my own Jacy) and minor bits of smoothing. I’ll add to the notes when a chapter’s been edited, so you can tell. 
> 
> My next big fic will be called **New Roads** , and yes, the title’s a bit of a joke on _Old Vines_ because I am five. It’s an in-canon sequel to the show (and book) where Crowley and Aziraphale take a complicated sort of vacation to deal with their issues post-canon. I’m terribly excited to start posting it. It’s basically a love letter to road trips, which we have all been missing these days since the world has been shut down, as well as a return to actual canon Good Omens — not that I haven’t loved this AU!
> 
> There may also be additional stories told in this world - a lot of you have asked for more Adam and Warlock, for example - so subscribe to my updates if you don’t want to miss anything!
> 
> If you want to follow other work and be engaged with my first published novel, join my writing discord for occasional drunk trolling and other sneak previews! Follow me on tumblr and elsewhere, and check my carrd for other ways to help me out.
> 
> I cannot thank this fanbase enough. This fandom has been amazingly, incredibly welcoming, and so supportive. I would never have finished it without the response I got from all of you. This is for every single one of you who has been here. You, too, are worth it.
> 
> Let’s all be old vines together. Even in these strange times, roots grow deep.

**Author's Note:**

> (Chapters are being re-edited for typos; notes will mark when they've been revised!)


End file.
